Incessant
by Shannon Picton
Summary: When Isabella Swan moves away from sunny Phoenix to small-town Forks she's met with the oddest group of people she's ever met. The Cullens are both beautiful and utterly mad, excluding the youngest, Edward, who pales in comparison to his eccentric adopted siblings. Bella quickly finds herself obsessed with the sickly boy and his brilliant mind. But what are the Cullens hiding?
1. Chapter One: First Light

Disclaimer: Do we really have to do this still? I obviously don't own twilight. I do, however, own a swimming certificate which, in my opinion, is much better.

**21/03/15 Edited for inconsistencies**

First Light

The spines of the potted miniature cactus prick into my lap through my bag as intensely as my mother's sadness. The glowing light from the diner illuminates the profile of her face, composed, but sad around the corners of her eyes and mouth. She gives me small, tight smiles as regular intervals as we wait, sometimes humming along to the radio, sometimes just peering at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Her lip twitches when the police cruiser turns into the parking lot and for a moment I think she's going to hit the gas pedal and drive away, taking me with me with her, but instead she sighs and angles her body towards me.

"If your father says anything about the rabbit I put in your bag tell him it's a modern piece of art that I got you from London," she says.

"Mom," I hiss, rolling my eyes when she laughs and absently pats my leg.

"Honestly, sweetheart, cheer up. I thought this is what you wanted," she says, watching the police car as is disappears behind a line of parked cars.

"It is," I say half-heartedly.

"Then at least pretend you're excited about seeing Charlie."

"I am," I insist and though she doesn't argue she purses her lips in a fashion that begs to differ.

My father appears from behind a large pick-up truck, tall and dark, wearing a faded, brown leather jacket and a smile. I hear Mom sigh heavily beside me and she shakes her head a little as if saddened and exasperated. She leans up to check her make-up in the rear-view mirror and fluffs her unnaturally blonde hair.

"Out you get," she says, shooing me out of the car as she puts on the red high heels she'd kept in her handbag the entire trip.

Her eyes follow me as I hop out of her shiny, red Mercedes and into my father's waiting arms. The smell of Tabaco and spicy aftershave clings to him and his stubble scratches my cheek. He is handsome for a man of fifty-something with a solid build and a signature moustache that identifies him throughout Forks as the Chief of Police.

"It was good of you to pick her up" says Mom sarcastically, sliding out the car as she readjusts the sunglasses that should have been taken off hours ago, the weather in my father's home town being anything but sunny.

Charlie peers over the top of my head and they eye each other carefully as I pull back from my father's embrace. Behind the thick facial hair I see his lip twitch as my mother extends her hand.

"Hello, Renée," Charlie's voice is gravely and solemn.

"Charles."

Awkwardness hangs in the air as they shake, my father's hand lingering too long and his eyes tracking her every move as if she were the most enthralling creature to have ever walked the earth.

"Everything going well?" asks Mom, her words brusque as brushes off invisible dirt from her clothes—all crisp, designer and new.

"Of course. Forks is as safe as always, it never changes."

"Still stuck in the stone ages, then?"

"Something like that."

Despite her efforts to seem aloof her flighty nature is given away by her darting eyes and twiddling fingers. She's so different to Charlie who stands tall and still, unchanging.

"And what about you?" asks Mom, trying to keep eye contact just long enough to appear confident, "How are _you_?"

"I'm fine. Yourself?"

"I'm great, actually. Phil recently got signed. We're all very excited about it, it could be his big break. And I've been attending ballroom dancing lesson between work. Pablo says I'm a natural."

"That's good."

"Yes it is."

Her latest obsession will have undoubtedly run its course by the end of the month. Within the years her passions have included yoga, kickboxing, fashion designing and sky diving, each of which consumed a majority of her time until she grew bored of them. My mother is consistently searching for her signature thing, a hobby or lifestyle to separate herself from the norm. I find it quite bizarre.

"I promise to call every day, Mom," I say quickly, trying to defuse the tense atmosphere still lingering between my parents.

"Of course, honey," she says, her voice strained.

"No really '' I reassure, but a flick of worry passes across her eyes and I wonder if she feels like I've been stolen away by my father—a man who I've only seen on the occasional holiday when he could bring himself to leave the comfort of his own home.

"You be good," she says, leaning down to leave a pillar-box red smudge against my ashen skin.

"Aren't I always?" I joke, wryly.

She doesn't laugh and I'm reminded of the pain I'm causing her. But it's for the best and soon she'll have moved on. It's the only thing that keeps me going; the promise of my mother's happiness.

Her gaze flicks between me and my father, conflicted, looking almost as if she wishes to stay with me as she slides back into the car. Memories of us sitting in the blistering heat of Phoenix and discussing the dreary town she escaped from play in my head. She would hate Forks more than she would love me. The trauma the town had left was too great.

"I love you," Mom says.

"I'll miss you, too," I say.

She nods at Charlie before pulling out of the parking lot. The sleek car sails into the background, a distant flame that carries my old life away. I see Charlie watch me carefully from the corner of my eye, trying to gage my expression. I keep my face excruciatingly neutral as my heart flops painfully in my ribcage.

Between a Toyota and rusty pickup truck my father's police cruiser sits, the blue lettering down its sides glaringly bright against the white body. As I sit down in the passenger seat I marvel over how symbolic this is, as if I'm truly sentencing myself to Forks. Mom often described the dingy town as a prison and I share her sentiment.

The ride to Forks with my father is what one would call strained. I inherited his lack of social skills and so the conversations we engage in together cannot be described as verbose.

"You look well," he says, staring straight ahead, the grey light filtering through the car window highlighting the crinkles and imperfections in his weathered skin.

"Thanks," I say, cringing, my hand coming up to comb out the snags the road trip with my mother has knotted into my hair.

"And older," he says.

I smile, unsure how to reply.

I know we've entered Forks when the lighting dims slightly due to a canopy of dark, tumultuous clouds and thick moss begins to clog every surface from the trees to the shack-like houses that line the side of the road. I sink low into my seat. I don't want anyone to see my face gliding by in the cruiser.

"Is there a bus to school?" I ask.

"Oh…err," the visible part of Charlie's cheeks flush red. "You don't need to worry about that, Bella I—"

"It's Isabella, Charlie," I correct.

His eyes narrow. "Right, of course. I was just saying I've already bought you a truck."

"What?" I gasp. "A truck? Really?"

I'd been expecting to have to walk every day in the drizzle seeing as I down right refused the idea of having to go in the police cruiser. That would have been humiliating and not to mention probably slowed traffic down to a point I'd be late most mornings. The prospect of a new truck was more than I'd dared to hope.

"I thought it was probably my duty as _your father _to provide suitable transportation," he says with a trace of steel in his voice, but then his eyes soften. "I wanted to give it to you, anyway. Think of it as a housewarming gift."

"You shouldn't have," I say, glad that he did.

"I know. But I love you Bel—Isabella. I've missed you."

I shift awkwardly in my seat.

Charlie's house is different than the other's in his street. Though all have the same basic structure the house at the end of the road with large garden and forest backdrop looks somewhat neglected in comparison. The pathway leading up to the porch has cracked paving stones and the grass of the front lawn is a little too long and littered with just too many flowering weeds to be considered kempt. The blue house needs a fresh lick of paint and the windows could do with a clean. However the thing that really stands out is the monstrosity of a truck that's parked out front. A huge, ugly thing with bulbous headlights and a rusted grille that have the look of a scowling face. Under the red paint given to update its look I seen an old coat of blue.

"What do you think?" asks Charlie as he pulls up on the drive.

"Oh, Dad," I falter," It's...uh… it's great."

"I wouldn't go that far," he chuckles, "but it's all I could afford. It'll get you from A to B, though, and if it ever does go wrong—not that I'm saying it would—but if it does Billy Black's son will sort it out. You remember Jacob right?"

"Jacob?"

"Yeah. Nice kid. Good rates too. Did my cruiser for a pittance."

"Oh, no sorry. Not really," I say.

"Never mind. It has been years I suppose. I'm sure you'll see him around since he has to wheel Billy everywhere nowadays."

I blink in surprise. "Billy's in a wheelchair?"

"He's been disabled for years, Bella."

I blush with embarrassment.

Charlie opens the front door for me and I smile graciously as we duck inside out of the cold and sleeting rain. My canvas shoes squeak on the floorboards as I turn to hang my jacket on the empty coat hooks and lean my luggage against the wall. The house is warm with blue and cream walls and wooden panelling.

"Are you hungry?" asks Charlie hanging up his leather jacket and ever-present gun.

"A bit," I say, "I haven't eaten in a while, the restaurant we stopped at last didn't look very clean."

"I don't blame you. If it looks dirty the kitchen is probably worse. I don't think I could cook anything as decent as your mother, but I could try making some pasta. Or we could go to Stephanie's if you wanted."

"Pasta would be great," I say.

As I go to follow Charlie to the kitchen something catches my eye. Staggered across the hallway wall, alongside the stairs, an array of large, mismatched frames hang, holding a variety of photographs. They depict various scenes; a teenage Charlie embraced by two grinning boys, both with coffee coloured skin and long, dark hair, who I can only assume to be Billy Black and Harry Clearwater; Uncle Mick celebrating his fiftieth birthday, the candles topping the round cake illuminating the singing faces encircling the table; my cousins and I making mud pies as very small children and even my mother smiling demurely on a swing, her hair dark and her skin flushed with youth.

I find it slightly odd to see a young version of her smiling back at me from within her ex-husbands house, but I can't blame Dad. She's beautiful. It's none of these photos, however, that makes me hesitate in my tracks.

The smallest of the photos is monochrome and rather bland in comparison to the vibrant pictures surrounding it. A young woman looks directly into the lens of the camera. The way she holds herself makes her appear resolute, balanced stiffly on the edge of her seat under a tree. Her hair is long and waving, curling at her temples and other than her eyes—which appear pale—she looks exactly like me.

"That's Grandma Swan," says Charlie from behind me, making me jump.

"Oh," I say, reaching out to touch her face with my fingertips, "I think I can see a family resemblance."

He chuckles and nods. "You're a Swan, Bells, through and through."

I follow him into the kitchen. It's cramped and smells of lingering burnt toast, though I see no toaster. The cupboards are lemon and don't match anything else, the chairs around the dining table being red and displayed mugs and utensils being anything other than yellow.

I perch on the edge of the chair Charlie ushers me to as he fumbles around in the kitchen, revealing just how bare the cupboards are inside. A deep sigh leaves me as I come to the realisation that he mustn't cook a lot. In fact it wouldn't surprise me if he ate at Stephanie's Diner every night. I decide to take on the responsibility to ensure he gets properly fed.

When the pasta is ready—overcooked with a too runny sauce—Charlie sits with me at the table. He winces at his own food and pokes at it with a frown.

"We should have gotten take-out," he says.

"It's not _that _bad," I lie.

Charlie smiles weakly and grimaces his way through the first few mouthfuls of his meal.

I suddenly find myself intensely missing home. Not just my mom or my friends—if I can call Lindsey and Bailey that—or even the sanctuary of my bedroom, but my routine. How I'd get home from school to be greeted with the scent of spice and herbs, the tell tail signs of another delicacy being created by my mother over the stove. How we'd watch _L.A's Guide to a Woman _between conversations about our day and how Maria from the show was such a bitch. The urge to call my mom to ask her to take me back home has my fingers twitching.

Charlie glances up at me through a particularly distasteful bite and frowns at my expression. I curse my lack of acting skills.

"Are you okay, Isabella?" he asks.

I nod, forcing a smile that I hope looks genuine.

Charlie gives me a replying encouraging smile, peeking up at me worriedly as we eat in silence. My hair covers my face, hiding the pained expression there. I loathe Forks. This teamed with sadness of leaving my beloved mother has me nearly overwhelmed.

"You don't have to stay here, sweetie," says Charlie quietly.

"I'm not tired enough for sleep," I say, pushing around my food, not ready to come face to face with the room I'll be spending most of my time in now.

"I mean in Forks. No body's forcing you to stay with me."

"I _want _to be with you, Dad," I say, with at least some conviction.

He doesn't argue, but I can tell he's not convinced. In an attempt to put his mind at ease I search for some light topic of conversation.

"So school starts at seven o'clock, right?"

Charlie nods. "On the dot. Would you like me to wake you up?"

"No. I'm good, thank you. I doubt I'll be able to sleep anyway."

"You don't need to worry. I've sorted everything out for you with the front office. You're a clever girl, B—Isabella, you'll have no trouble."

He's right. I _am _intelligent, but it's not the classes I'm worried about. Later, from within the bathroom, I brush my hair and clean my teeth; the nightly rituals take longer than expected with my tooth brush hidden in one of my bags and the task that was to be my tangled tresses, they are monotonous and I do them automatically, giving my brain plenty of freedom to think about other things. I dwell on how much has changed since just last week. How I live in a whole different place now with completely different people and a completely different school. How I'm going to have to start from scratch social-wise. I feel like I've changed just from being here, maybe I have.

Looking in the mirror, I see a girl with long hair, mahogany in colour and waving around a soft heart-shaped face. She looks at me with big, dark chocolate eyes framed with generous lashes. She smiles at me, plump, soft lips parting to show off straight white teeth. Yes, I still look like me, but there are subtle differences.

My skin, once described as porcelain, has taken on a sickly undertone here. I look like death. This is amplified by my small frame, my petite shoulders hunched over in protection. I can no longer pass for pretty. With the sun gone so has the trick of the light.

I call down goodnight to my dad before entering my new bedroom. It's so dark I barely miss clipping myself on the hulking wardrobe, the blinking lights of the computer screen by the far wall providing enough lighting for me to not injure myself. I crawl under the ridiculous, frilly duvet on the bed and curl up on my side. From the window on the adjacent wall I watch the moon disappear and reappear from behind the blanketing clouds. I find myself wondering if I'll ever see the sun again as I drift off to sleep.

The clouds are thicker in the morning and it's begun to rain. I hear the patter of the downpour on the roof as I wash and pull on several layers of clothing. The high necked, blue, woollen sweater is surprisingly soft against the skin of my throat, but I still find my fingers reaching up to tug it away from my jugular. When I go downstairs I find a note written by Charlie on the kitchen table. It wishes me luck. I scoff. His luck is wasted.

The drive to school is a short one which I'm not happy about. There's no time to ground myself or fight off the strong sense of nausea churning in my gut. I catch sight of the school behind the perpetually unending thicket of trees which contour the roads and poke up in the far distance. The school consists of a cluster of red bricked buildings of various dimensions and a small, already half-filled car park. It lacks the feel of conformity I'm used to as well as the size. I park up the truck and shuffle my way towards the building marked _front office._ My nerves slow my feet and the closer I get to the glass doors the sicker I feel.

The inside is surprisingly toasty and the sudden rush of warmth flushes my cheeks. The décor is decidedly bland with a large clock over a glass cabinet that displays a lacking about of trophies and certificates. The walls and floor are a light beige and the only colour in the room comes from the sage plastic chairs alongside the Principal's Office door and yet another tree—small and potted, sitting on the receptionist desk.

The middle aged lady behind the front desk looks more suited as an art teacher than a receptionist. She wears loose clothes, an ancient looking shawl thing and her hands are clustered with rings, bangles and woven bracelets. Her red-ish hair is a mess of corkscrew curls that stick up around her face. My mother would describe her as a hot mess. I'd agree.

"Bella Swan!" she says before I can even open my mouth.

"Isabella," I correct.

"Of course, or course. How are you?" she says, a little too informally.

"Good," I say uneasily.

"And how are you enjoying being back home in Forks?" she asks as turns to a stack of precariously balanced files on her desk and pulls out several slips of yellow paper.

I bridle slightly at that. Forks has never been my home and it never will be. Home is with the heat and my mother and the life I wish I was currently living. Forks is a place I will reside in for as long as it's best for me to do so. But of course I say none of this.

"It's good," I say weakly.

"I bet it is. The Chief has been talking non-stop to everyone about his beautiful daughter finally coming to live with him. I can barely go into town without hearing about you," she chortles.

I'm unsure what to say and so mumble out something that sounds vaguely polite. It satisfies the receptionist's curiosity enough—her badge identifies her as Ms Cope—so that she hands me a school map, an empty grid for my teachers to sign and my timetable. I glance down at today's agenda and groan inwardly. My lessons consist of Art, Drama, Spanish, German, Biology and double Gym. Where's the Advance Chemistry and Math? A few times a week? I feel like I've been given the leftover classes.

Had this been any other day and not a first day I'd have argued about the matter, but the nerves in my stomach keep me from doing so; the butterflies in my stomach choking my words.

"You have great day now, Bella," says Ms Cope.

I inwardly scowl.

The map is small, reflecting the tiny size of the school in its entirety and, to my horror, I quickly discover the Art Block is situated quite a distance from the main building and away from any cover. I almost consider not going—my art skills being less than poor and my desire to get wet even lower than that—but I'm sure the teacher will already be aware of my presence here. The mere fact the receptionist could recognise me so easily suggests news spreads like wildfire—how ironic—around here.

I trudge my away across the school grounds, my feet squelching as I try ignore the curious looks that come my way from under the hoods of raincoats and woolly hats. Rather, I try to look like I don't notice. Even as I hang my coat up in the cloak room and enter classroom B17 the stares continue. They are joined by hushed whispers when I turn my back to introduce myself to the teacher.

Like the receptionist Ms Clement recognises my name instantly, but goes about it in a much softer way, jokingly inquiring how the Chief of Police is managing with all the crime in Forks. She's an elderly lady with an impossibly tiny build, grey eyes and grey hair pulled back into a bun. There's a kindness about her face that is confirmed in her personality when she tells me to sit wherever I'd like.

"First days are stressful enough without having to sit somewhere you don't want to," she says. "And don't worry Isabella, I'm sure you'll love it here with us in Forks."

I choose a seat at the back of the class with no neighbour. A few students turn their heads to get a good look at me, hastily pretending to be looking at the wall when I peep up from under my hair. My cheeks flush scarlet at all the unwanted attention.

Ms Clement starts the lesson a few minutes early; it spares me a few more agonising moments of being surveyed like a strange, foreign animal. I sink lower into my seat, allowing the thick curtain of my hair to further hide my face—a chocolate drape which acts as an impenetrable shield. I feel vulnerable and unsettled and it's apparently obvious. As Ms Clement comes around distributing paper she smiles at me reassuringly before continuing briefing us on this semester's topic.

"I'll all about you, my dears," she says. "I know most of you pretty well by now, but how well do you know yourselves? This topic is so much more fun and creative than the last one as well as eye opening. We'll be developing ideas that reflect who we are, what we like and who has impacted our lives. In fact we'll evetua—"

_"Stop!"_

I yelp as the door flies open with a crash.

A huge man towers in the entrance of the room, his arms braced against the doorframe. His whole body is wrapped in thick muscle and his dark eyes are wide, intense and wild. His breath is shallow and pulls his taupe sweater tight over his heaving chest. He is the sort of man I fear when going down a dark alleyway at night. Brutish and unstoppable.

"Hello, Emmett," says Ms Clement, continuing handing out paper and pencils. She looks somehow even frailer compared to the tense beast by the door.

The man's eyes narrow, dark and hunter-like.

"Would you care to take a seat?" she asks.

I wait for the reply, the defiance or at least an excuse for his behaviour. The other students seem not to be quite as shocked as myself, but they watch him with the same curiosity that only moments before had been directed at me. Except only now it's mixed with an edge of fear or at least distrust that one would direct at a rabid dog.

"You started the lesson without me," accuses the man, his voice rasping over the short words.

I blink in surprise.

"Yes, Emmett, now sit down," says Ms Clement, not bothering to look towards him. "We're sketching today."

Spontaneously, as if a switch has been flipped, all hostility leaves his face and a serene smile pulls at his lips. The change unnerves me, as does the too still way he holds himself, poised like a predator.

His eyes snap to me, catching me gaping from behind my protective hair. I quickly lower my eyes, fixing them on the desk and occupying my jittering hands with my pencil. It's too late though. I can almost feel the vibrations of his footsteps as he ignores the other empty seats to plonk himself down next to me. He is giant. Dwarfing my five-foot-four height and making me feel unnervingly defenceless.

I continue to stare at the desk even as he stares at me. And it's only him staring, too. The others seem to have suddenly grow disinterested, as if the interruption had settled them into old familiarity.

"Mmmerit."

"Pardon?" I ask my eyes flicking up automatically.

His smile is that of a child and with all the aggression no longer poisoning his face I abruptly realise that I'm staring into the face of an angel. It brings all thought processes to an unexpected halt, like a crashing computer. It shocks me so deeply I only just catch his words, equally as unexplainably hypnotising as his appearance.

"I'm Emmett," he says.

"Oh."

Another person would feel uncomfortable under my gawping, but, as an angel, Emmett continues to smile blissfully even when a full minute passes, a completely unacceptable amount of time to retain eye contact.

"What's your name?"

"Bella Swan."

He turns away from me with a snap of the head and picks up the pencil with his massive hand. He listens to the teacher closely, nodding with her as she gives her instructions for the day. When he draws it's carefully, as if with constant effort not to snap the pencil. His work is abstract and could easily have come from the hand of either a six year old or Picasso. By the end of the lesson he has drawn a crude representation of his family: his parents, two brothers, a sister and what is either a sister with short hair or a brother in a skirt.

My face turns the colour of a prune as I realise what an ass I'm being. It's not like there weren't attractive jocks back in Phoenix, I scold myself. Yet even as I hand in my own unsophisticated depiction of my family, I find my eyes tracking the manchild out of the classroom. The other students part from him, their faces holding a mix of fear and revere. Much like the expression displayed blatantly on my own face.

"Don't worry, dear," says Ms Clement, "You'll get use to him."

That I severely doubt.

A/N

Heyo! This is our (two separate entities working here) first fanfic. We're going to keep it based roughly on the book, but with our own unique twist that we think you'll enjoy, at least we hope you will. We have no beta, but we've done a somewhat of reasonable job where correct grammar and spelling is concerned, in our opinion anyway. Constructive criticism is always welcome on this and any matter. There is some OOCness, however we think this benefits the story overall and has been done to enrich your experience. It's M for a reason, adult themes and the such, but I'm sure you've read worse. We're on the internet after all. This, most likely, will be our longest A/N, so worry not for paragraphs at the beginning and end of each chapter. We have nothing particularly interesting to write home about, other than blatant grovelling for people to review. Thanks so much for reading and we hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters (whenever they may come out.)

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	2. Chapter Two: Closed Book

Disclaimer: I still don't own twilight. A diary from when I was nine? Hell yeah I have one of those.

**21/03/2015 edited**

Closed Book

There's a boy in my English class who introduces himself as Mike. He's pretty as far as Forks boys go, blonde and blue-eyed, but baby-faced and freckly. He struts towards me before class starts with an air which belongs to someone with a considerably more defined body than his and leans against my desk in an ill-fitting bad-boy gesture.

"Hey," he drawls, "you're Bella Swan, aren't you?"

The urge to say no is strong. "Isabella, actually."

"I'm Mike. Mike Newton. You've probably already heard of me."

His cocky attitude is less than appealing mainly due to the fact his face is that of a chess nerd or computer geek. Ironically, the designated dork is better looking. Eric Yorkie sits in the back, his black glasses have the hint of the unintentional hipster and his face is all cheekbones and intense stares. It's considerably more attractive than the panting Labrador by my side.

"Oh right," I say, feigning sudden realisation, "_Mike_."

The smug look on his face has my toes curling in disgust.

My revulsion is surpassed only by anxiety when a large group of girls stagger through the door in skyscraper heels. Their hair is over-styled, their make-up heavy and their clothes are too revealing to be keeping them warm in Forks' weather. They judge me in cold, glances as they plot their next move in league with their pack leader—a girl with curly brown hair and thin lips. She totters over to us, her eyes knife-sharp on me and butter-soft when she catches Mike's attention.

"God, _Michael_. Chatting up the new kid? You're such a creep," she giggles. Her words should be scolding, but her tone and the way she flaunts her body—too much curve in all the wrong places—suggests she approves of any chance to converse with him.

"Don't worry, Jessie-Baby, I'll save some of my freakiness for tonight," Mike says.

"I said _creep _not _freak,_" squeals Jessie-Baby—Jessica?—in delight at his outrageous remark.

"I know, sexy, but I love to tease you. Ro knows how good I tease, don't ya, sugar," he says shooting a wink at a tall, blonde girl who enters the classroom alone.

She is beautiful.

_ "Fuck off."_

The others laugh at her snarl as if her unreasonable anger is a joke, not the threat that seethes from her body in hostile waves. Ro stalks to her desk, her corn silk hair catching in the strap of her Louis Vuitton bag as she barges past the snickering girls. Beautiful and rich, figures.

I take hasty, disbelieving glances at the model glowering out the window, entrapped by her beauty, but scared of getting caught. I'm surprised at the lack of lusting jealous looks which should be thrown her way. In fact, no one seems to notice the goddess at all, as if I'm the only one who can see the statuesque body, high cheekbones, pouty lips and sultry eyes that belong on the front page of a magazine.

I turn back to confront the group only to realise my novelty has worn off surprisingly soon. Mike wanders to the back of the class with Jessie-Baby, lured by her fluttering eyelashes and chin-rest-able tits. The group of tottering girls follow them, lurching towards the seats of what must be Forks' equivalent of jocks—pudgy bodied boys with slicked-back hair, smug smirks and misplaced confidence.

"Ignore them," says a girl who nervously pulls up a chair next to mine. "Jessica and her friends just like showing off, but they won't bother you."

"I know," I say, with a smile. "But thanks."

"Don't worry about it. I'm Angela."

"Isabella," I say, noting the girl's kind face—a sweet concoction of large eyes and round cheeks.

For the duration of English I work with Angela at our table. The work is very basic and I'm glad to discover Angela is easily as advanced as me. We speed through the first half of the work before languidly finishing off the rest between conversations about my home town.

"It must suck being here then," says Angela, "with it raining all the time. I'd love to live somewhere hot. I'm not the palest in Forks, but I certainly don't have a tan."

"I _have _lived in the sun all my life and I _still _don't have a tan," I joke, pulling back the long sleeve of my T-shirt to display my white skin.

Angela giggles, pressing her own upturned arm against mine, seemingly satisfied at the difference. Her pale olive undertones bring out the shocking pink ones in my own, our veins—mine blue, hers tinted green—thrumming at our exposed wrists at mismatching paces.

When English finishes I'm surprised, but rather pleased, to note that Angela hangs back. She hovers as I scoop my belongings into my expensive satchel—a parting gift from my mother through Phil's rapidly depleting wallet.

"You can sit with me at lunch," she says. "It's just me, I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," I say, smiling, tugging close the zip and ignoring the envious stares from a girl across the aisle.

Any company is better than none and Angela seems to be a sweet girl. Though I'm slap-bang in the middle of a place that oozes grey-green wetness, she radiates a slow, steady warmth that reminds me oddly of Charlie. Behind the shyness I see a constant resolute in her; a rock in a room of butterflies.

I buy the cheapest things at the cafeteria, an apple and some carrot juice, the nerves from earlier still having left a lasting impression on my stomach. For such a slight girl I'm shocked at the amount of food Angela piles onto her plate.

"Are you getting that for me?" I ask, frowning at her mountain of food.

"Oh, no. Would you like me to get you some? I don't mind."

"No, no, I was just wondering," I mumble.

"Didn't you bring enough money? The cafeteria is always overpriced here," she says glancing at my apple. "I don't mind lending you a couple of dollars."

"It's okay, really. I'm just not hungry, I had a big breakfast," I lie.

She starts to say something else, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles, but my attention becomes inexplicably diverted. Behind her head I see the cafeteria's back doors swing open, mimicking a movie straight out of the 80's with a gust of dramatic wind which brings with it the scraping of leaves and the scent of leather, tobacco and something eye-flutteringly sweet. The dull, grey lighting from outside frames five figures who step into the room silent and disjointed from everyone else.

The first two I recognise. The blonde goddess and the dark angel hold hands, somehow managing to possess a likeness despite neither sharing any of the same features. Though Ro's fingers hold Emmett's in a butter-soft grip, her eyes hold a steel that have taken on a protective quality as she sweeps the cafeteria with an unnerving and unforgiving gaze. Her neck follows her partner's touch as he pulls her hair free of her collar, babbling happily in deep notes that reverberate across the room.

The third figure is lean and illustrious in appearance. His champagne hair is straight and luxuriously thick, framing sharp cheekbones, a defined chin and a square jaw. Fair eyelashes dust along his cheeks whi le furrowed brows shadow a pair of intense eyes. They smoke with danger, a burning amber which hint at the animal within the designer suit.

The fourth of the group is a tiny girl, pixie-like with dark hair cut boyishly short and skin the same perfect marble as her companions. She reaches out with twiggish arms to take her blonde partner's face in her hands. The action softens his clenched jaw, but doesn't extinguish that horrible, creepy glare.

The last of the group is somewhat hidden by Emmett's bear-like build and yet I'm drawn to him instantly. He sticks out like a sore thumb and my heart fumbles at the mere sight of him. Although his companions are pale even compared to myself, a self-declared albino, next to him they appear to glow with life. His skin is grey, darker under sad, tired eyes and stretched tightly across gaunt cheeks. Against such a pallid base his hair is a shocking orange buzz that would be terribly unflattering on anyone.

For a second—a tiny, brief second—he glances up, scanning the room nervously before he notices me. His eyes hover in surprise, large, unblinking and exceptionally green, before darting back to the floor, a horrendous blush coating his face headline to chin.

"_What's wrong with that boy?"_ I hiss at Angela, watching the group hustle him to a table at the far back. "He looks like death."

"That's Edward," says Angela sadly. "He's dying."

My focus snaps to her. "Cancer?"

"Leukaemia."

"That's terrible," I say, distractedly paying the lady at the cash register.

"Mhhm. If it weren't for Doctor Cullen I'm not sure he'd be here now."

"Doctor Cullen…?"

"Oh! Right, of course. I forget that there are people who don't know Forks' gossip. It's like Fork' is the whole world sometimes," she says as we seat ourselves at a table far away enough not to be overheard by anyone. "The Cullens: Emmet, Alice and Edward," she says gesturing to each in turn, "and the Hales: Jasper and Rosalie, the two blondes."

"They're all related?"

"No, they're adopted. Well, Ro and Jasper are twins, but the others just took the Doctor's last name. They're very family orientated, closer than I am to my parents."

I look over at the strange family. Except I don't see the interactions of just brother's and sister's, but evidently lovers too.

"Are they all…together?" I ask, a part of me revelling in the gossip.

Angela dips to hide under her hair, giggling. "Yup."

I bug out my eyes dramatically for effect and hide my snickers under my hand, "Is that even legal?"

"I have no idea. Well, I _think _it's okay."

"But isn't that, like, incest?"

"They're not real brothers and sisters, I don't think it counts."

"It's still kind of nasty," I snicker. "Didn't they all grow up together?"

"Everyone except Edward, he's only been with them a few years. Apparently he—" she cuts herself off abruptly. "I shouldn't really say."

"Oh go on," I encourage her enthusiastically, leaning forward across the table. "I'm new here. Everyone else already knows all the gossip. And who am I going to tell anyway?"

Angela smiles at me, her mouth pinching in a way which betrays both excitement and her concept of taboo at gossiping. "Okay, just promise not to tell your dad or anything. I don't want a cop knowing."

I internally curse Charlie. "Of course not."

"Well—and I don't know if it's true or not—apparently Edward, before he got adopted by the Doctor, was fostered by this other family. And—_apparently—_they were, like, super abusive and hit him and stuff. So, when he got cancer, well, they didn't want to put up with him anymore and gave him back. They told him they were talking him to Disney Land, but dropped him off at the care home instead."

"That's so sad," I whisper.

My eyes dart over to the Cullen's only to find a pair already looking in my direction. Ro glowers at me with a fury that stops my heart in its tracks. I fling my gaze back to Angela before my throat is telepathically ripped out.

"What's _her _problem?" I ask, subtly jabbing my thumb in the savage blonde's direction.

Angela peers over before embarrassedly turning back. She shifts awkwardly in her seat, picking at her ragged fingernails.

"Edward's not the only one with problems. The doctor and his wife adopt troubled kids. Ro has anger issues."

"You don't say," I mutter under my breath.

"She's super protective, too," whispers Angela. "This one time, when Edward's hair fell out the first time, one of the boys in the year above called him Friar Tuck and would stuff novelty wigs in his locker."

"What a shithead."

"He is. Well, was. Someone saw him get into Ro's car after school and then nobody knew what happened to him for almost two weeks. Whatever she did to him must have been bad because when he finally came back to school he was a wreck. Wouldn't go near the cafeteria and looked like he was going to throw up all the time."

"What do you think she did to him?" I ask.

"I think she probably got her boyfriend to beat him up or something. I'm pretty sure he'd do whatever she said."

The bell rings, shrill and foreboding, drawing groans and sighs from all around the room. The scraping of chairs being pulled reluctantly back grates on my eardrum. I flinch back from the edge of the table when a flash of golden hair streaks past me. Ro scowls at me, her lip curled as her family follows her out of the cafeteria. Edward doesn't look up from the floor, nearly crashing into his adopted siblings in the process.

"What have you got next?" ask Angela as we walk towards the bins.

"Gym," I groan. "I don't even have the kit yet."

Angela smiles sympathetically at me. "Ms Goff won't make you wear the lost and found kit, don't worry about it."

"I hope not. I don't particularly want to smell of rancid B.O," I say.

Angela laughs, scraping her plate as she regards me out of the corner of her eye. "You know, I really like you Isabella," she says.

"I really like you too," I chuckle, bemused.

Sure, she's a little tame compared to my old friends Lindsey and Bailey, but Angela seems kind enough. A little naive, perhaps, but her trust in me is refreshing. Considered an oddity at my old school—an outcast of epic proportions—I like the solidarity we seem to be sharing even after this small amount of time together.

Ms Goff is a lady in her mid-forties with unusually long, caramel hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wears shorts, a whistle around her neck, a blue polo and a permanently pursed expression.

"Isabella Swan," she calls, her voice echoing the moment I enter the small sports hall. "Here, please."

Somehow being in a room even associated with sports has me tripping over my own feet. I'm a klutz on a good day, but the thought of flying balls, tennis rackets and god awful team picking has my feet beginning to work out of sync, clipping each other and setting me off balance.

Ms Goff watches me with the eyes of a hawk, her lips pressing even tighter together when I wobble nervous in front of her. A few of the recently changed kids playing a warm-up game of basketball snicker at me and I flush, embarrassed.

"You don't play sport do you, Miss Swan?" she asks, her tone matter-of-fact and monotone.

"No, Miss," I say, shamed into humility, unable to keep eye contact with her for more than a few milliseconds.

"And you don't have a kit yet, do you?"

"No, Miss," I repeat.

"It's school policy for you at attend Gym lessons for a minimum of two hours a week, Miss Swan," she informs me, scratching her chin thoughtfully.

"I was aware, Miss," I say.

It was the first thing I checked when I decided to send myself to Forks. The very idea of a hundred-and-twenty minutes a week of pure hell was nearly enough to change my mind. However, the inner-guilt of staying was too much and I found myself on the long journey to my father's home a few weeks later. Here, again, I find myself wishing I was back home.

"Go sit on the bleachers."

I blink in surprise.

"I'm sorry, what did you say Miss?" I ask.

"Go sit on the bleachers and give Mr Cullen this for me please," she says pulling out a slip of green paper from her pocket.

My stomach drops and I follow her gaze up to the top of the bleachers. From behind a large book that looks thick enough to need several people to carry, tufts of orange hair sticks up horrendously.

Ms Goff stuffs the paper into my hands forcefully. "And don't bother purchasing a gym kit either, Miss Swan," she says, turning her back on me and approaching her gym class, her voice booming as she instructs them to get into teams.

Reluctantly, I climb up the bleachers, glancing around apprehensively. I half expect the boy's manic sister to appear with a knife in her hand. I roll my eyes at myself. I'm used to crazy bullies so I don't know why I'm so worried.

Until two years ago Lindsey had bullied me terribly. It was only when the object of her desires—quarterback Chad Davis—started looking at me differently did she decide it was more prudent to keep her enemies close.

It's not like Ro could hurt me, anyway. As daughter of the chief of police I may as well be untouchable. It's not unlike my father to start a full-blown investigation if I was to get home an hour late. In the times I'd been with him in my childhood—those visits few and far between—Charlie had seemed determined to make up what he'd missed by being ridiculously over-protective.

I shuffle over towards Edward, putting on my least threatening smile. He seems not to notice and continues to read. From the side profile of his face I see his eyebrows knitted together in concentration and the shiny paper reflects back a white glare that further accentuates the dark bags under his eyes.

"Hi there. Ms Goff told me to give you this," I say, keeping my voice soft and unthreatening.

The moment I speak he freezes, his eyes flying open in shock and a look of sheer panic spreading across his face. Fragile wrists that seem entirely too weak to be holding such a monstrosity of a book up, bring it even closer to him, tilting the cover so it hides his face. The exposed parts which I can see turn even paler, before flaring to life in a dreadful purpleish-red.

"You are Edward, right?" I ask, unexplainably questioned myself. "Edward Cullen?"

"Y-y-yes," he chokes out, trembling.

"Oh, good. Here. I'm not sure what it says."

I hold out the slip of paper carefully. I try to keep my movements slow as if I were approaching a frightened deer. The odd boy lowers the book into his lap, cover side down, and holds out a quivering hand, not daring to look up. His manner makes me feel uncomfortable, as If I'm being impolite to look at his face. I wonder if I've scared him somehow, if I've seemed too brash in front of him. But I don't recall seeing him in any of my classes; that red hair would have stood out in a room no matter how crowded. Perhaps he is just a trouble kid, like Angela said.

As I begin to reach the rest of the way forward under thick, long lashes I see his eyes flick upwards. There's something about them—maybe the seer unconfined emotion or the incredible colour—makes my lower stomach pull and my face fill with warmth. His own skin darkens to an even deeper red before the moment is cut off by the blast of Ms Goff's whistle.

Edward snatches the paper from my hand so quickly it's almost rude. He turns back to his book and stares at it so hard I know he can't be reading the words.

"T-t-thank you," he stutters.

"No problem," I say, quickly turning on my heels to sit somewhere—anywhere—far away enough that I can get the feeling in my stomach to calm and my blush to cool.

That night, when I'm lying in my new bed, snug under the comforter and pleasantly warm, the feeling creeps back in. It takes thirty minutes of Phil's favourite rock band blearing through my earphones to get it to go away and even then I feel the ghost of it pulsing through my blood.

A/N

Yeah...It's been a while... We've been working on our setting and planning out the entire plot. We can safely say we actually know where we're going with this now (sort of). We also corrected some spelling errors in our last post, though there's probably more. Regardless, we hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	3. Chapter Three: Normality

Disclaimer: Twilight? I don't own that. Several china elephants? That I have.

**21/03/2015 edited**

Normality

_"So, what's his name?"_

"Whose name?"

_"The name of whoever has been distracting you tonight."_

"I'm not distracted, Mom, I'm tired."

_"Liar. You've barely said a word all night. What happened? Is he cute? Did he ask you out? Do you like him back?"_

I snort at her torrent of questions and flop back on my bed, my ponytail curling over my pillow in a tangled mess.

"Nothing happened, honestly. There's no guy, no secret admirer. Forks is boring, as usual. As for cute guys, there's a sever lack of them," I say, squishing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I try to comb out the knots in my hair with my fingers.

_"Times never change,"_ mumbles Mom, a distinct edge of cynicism in her tone.

Though I'm not necessarily lying, something has actually bothered me. Edward wasn't in school today. After the incident yesterday I'd expected to go in and smooth things over in our next Gym lesson, except he wasn't there. He didn't turn up to lunch either.

At first I'd waved off the feeling his absence was something to do with me—it was arrogant to think I'd have such an effect on the boy—but then Ro gave credit to the thought when she had approached me after school. She'd prowled over to me with murder in her eyes, walking too quickly for me to jump in my truck and pretend I'd never seen her coming.

"Bella Swan?" she'd asked.

I hadn't corrected her, merely gulped and nodded hesitantly.

"I know you probably think you're a big shot or something, gracing us small-town folk with your oh-so-wonderful presence," she'd said, "but to be honest I don't give a shit who you are."

I'd choked on my own saliva with disbelief. Her voice was smooth and sultry and didn't match her words at all. It was almost like she was reading the wrong script during a performance.

"I'm sorry, d-do I—" she'd interrupted me before I could even get out the rest of my sentence.

"I pity Chief Swan for having such a skinny bitch of a daughter, I really do. He deserves better. However, irrespective of my admiration for your father, if I see you near my family ever again I'll fuck you over until you can't sleep at night. And—so help me god—if you even speak to Edward I'll make you wish you'd stayed in whichever hell-hole of a city that produced you."

With that she'd left and I'd stood there in complete appalled bewilderment for a good thirty seconds before I'd gathered enough common sense to get into my truck and drive home.

"The people are crazy here, Mom. I miss Phoenix," I say wearily.

_"I know, honey, I remember it. Why don't you come back home? Phil misses you."_

I cringe. "Don't be silly. I came here for a reason, remember?"

_"Yes, yes, I remember. You want to be closer to Charlie, I understand that, I really do, but I just think it's not worth it."_

"You don't think it's worth seeing my father?" I bridle slightly at that. Charlie's no saint and I don't particularly enjoy his company, but I feel I deserve to see him if I decide to.

_"I don't mean it like that. Of course it's great being with your dad, but Forks isn't where you should be. Forks isn't where any teenage girl should be. Come home, honey," _begs Mom.

"I will, Mom. I promise I'll come home, just not right now."

I hear her sigh on the other end of the phone just as a door slams in the background. _"Phil's home. I should probably get going, we're heading out for dinner tonight."_

"Chinese?"

_"Always," _she chuckles. _"I love you, baby. You know that right?"_

"Mom," I groan.

_"I'm just asking. I worry about you."_

"Please, that's my job," I say, hoping she doesn't realise how cruelly true that is.

_"Pfft, I'm fine. Worry about yourself. Got to go, honey. I'll speak to you later, alright? I love you. Bye."_

"Bye, Mom."

The line goes dead and I toss the phone to the end of my bed carelessly. I know my mother too well and can pick up on her concern like a sixth sense. She's worried I'm going to leave her, end up stuck in Forks like she was. If I even so much as develop an interest in a guy she'll be sending me packs of condoms in an effort to keep me obligation free. My mother isn't used to conventional parenting in the least.

The next morning I'm awoken early and for a chilling moment I have no idea where I am. I sit up ram-rod straight in my bed, panicking at the lack of purple walls lined with posters and snapshots of my friends and I. However, as my eyes adjust to the usually bright, white light seeping through my curtains, I remember where I am. The panic settles, but my heart continues to slug hard, filling with the lead sensation of loss.

I crawl out of bed and drag my feet towards the window, flinging open the curtains to be met with the surprising sight of snow. I frown. The white clumps clinging to the windowsill only serve as a reminder of how far away I am from home. I shiver involuntarily.

Downstairs Charlie sits at the kitchen table, two plates piled high with toast.

"I made you breakfast," he says, almost shyly as he slathers his own pieces with marmalade.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, seating myself down and wishing that a generous helping of Nutella was available.

We sit in silence for a while, Charlie brushing out burnt crumbs from his moustache whist he takes less than sly glances at me from behind his toast. He's tucked kitchen roll into the neck of his collar, protecting his uniform from any culinary related mishaps, yet he still manages to get butter stains on his trousers.

"Sleep well?" he asks, making a painful effort to bond.

"Yeah, alright. How did you make this by the way?" I ask. "I didn't think we had a toaster."

"We don't," Charlie admits. "I grill it."

I shake my head at him. That explains the charcoal coating.

"I put snow chains on your truck this morning. Billy gave me them free with the truck," Charlie says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He proffers me the pot after a brief consideration.

"No thank you. You didn't have to do that, you know," I say, warming slightly to my father.

"Don't be silly, Bells. I don't mind. I'd rather you be safe than sorry. The number one killer in Forks is road accidence. That and old age, but I don't see any grey hairs on your head yet," he chuckles.

Charlie looks less haggard when he laughs and it allows me to see how handsome he would have been in his youth. I also perceive just how very similar I am to my father, his brown eyes echoing my exactly.

"Still," I say, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

Driving in the snow is perhaps one of the scariest things I've ever had to do. Although I'm encased in a monster of a truck that I know would protect me from everything other than a military tank, I fear for the cars around me. The snow chains Charlie installed keep me from sliding all over the place, but the understanding I've never driven in such conditions before puts me on edge and makes me a decidedly atrocious driver.

It's a relief when I finally park up at school; the roar of my truck dying as I shut off the engine and hop out into the cold. I nearly fall flat on my face several times on my way to my classes, but then so do several people. It's nice to not be the only clumsy person for a change.

It's a little less embarrassing walking into my lessons now. People still stare, but I've very quickly grown used to it. I head straight to the back before anyone can get too brave to come and pester me and after a while the stares die down as they become preoccupied with their own conversations.

In German I sit next to a rather pretty, platinum blonde girl who I recognise as being one of Jessica's followers. She wears a great deal less makeup than her friends and her clothes hold a somewhat classier style. The girl oozes old money right down to her entitled attitude in which she purses her lips at me in such a manner that suggests everything I do annoys her.

"I'm Lauren, in case you were wondering," she introduces herself halfway through the lesson, offhand as she twirls a stand of hair between perfectly manicured fingernails.

"Isabella Swan," I reply.

"I already know who you are," she says flippantly, "Jessica won't stop talking about you at lunch. In fact, everyone won't stop talking about you in general. It's making me nauseous."

"I'm sorry," I say, squirming at the thought of being a topic of conversation.

"Don't be. Rather you than me. It's all Isabella this and Isabella that. I'm sure half the stuff they say about you is made up. Is it even true the Cullens have spoken with you?"

I nod cautiously, gauging her reaction.

"Hmph. That's utterly ridiculous. I honestly don't see what all the fuss is about, you've not even pretty. No offence."

"None taken."

She smirks at me in a way that makes me apprehensive. She's like a tigress hunting her prey. "Which of the Cullens has spoken to you?" she asks.

"Umm…Emmett, Edward and Rosalie Cullen," I say, wondering if the exchange between Edward and myself can be considered a conversation at all.

"Good. Don't bother with the pretty, blonde boy. Jasper's mine, when he's finished with that crazy short-haired bitch, of course."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, my fear of Ro preventing me from daring to insult the Cullens as Lauren does.

"Stop fidgeting," she barks, "I'm not going to bite you."

I try to concentrate on filling out the worksheet in front of me and ignoring Lauren, but she leans back in her chair, propping her feet up rather disrespectfully on the desk. Her shoes look expensive, not made by a well-known designer by any means, but perhaps created by a small bespoke stylist in the heart of France. Mom would love them.

"Shouldn't you be doing the work?" I ask, trying to get a look at her sheet.

"I've finished," she says.

"There was extra work on the back," I say, hoping to keep her busy so I don't look as bad.

"I know and I said I'm finished."

She's filled out the sheet annoyingly fast; if it's correct or not is another matter. It looks alright, but then what do I know? I'm terrible at learning languages.

"My mother is German," explains Lauren as she watches me struggle over my own work. "She's fluent in Italian, Spanish, Chinese and French. It's because of her I'm fluent in three languages and semi-fluent in two more."

"What made you take German then?" I ask.

"Ugh. Well it _obviously _wasn't my choice, stupid. I've been up to the office to try and swap for Advanced Chemistry, but they won't listen to a word I say," she huffs.

"They gave me the leftover classes," I admit. "I was in advanced lessons back at home too, but it's like they shoved me into any class that had an opening."

"They probably did. You should do something about it," says Lauren, her tone making it very clear she expects me to do just that.

"I doubt they'd listen."

"Probably not, but then at least you can make an official complaint with me. I'm sick of this school. It's run by idiots."

I don't disagree with her, thinking of the hippy receptionist in the main office. I've already experienced one drama lesson this week, something I'd rather not repeat.

"Will you come with me?" I ask. "To make a complaint?"

"Sure, whatever," says Lauren. "Come over to my table at lunch and we'll go together, I'll forget if you don't."

"Okay," I grin, relieved, "that sounds great."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles, clearly not as emotionally involved as myself. "If they say no to you then you can get your dad to come down to the school."

"I'm not sure that would help," I say.

"Sure it would. You're dad's chief of police, they'd _have _to listen to him."

I cringe at the thought.

Angela's waiting for me outside the classroom, nervously picking at the hem of her dress as students barge past her. Her sleek, black hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and she wears a high-necked, calf-length blue dress. It brings out the warm amber flecks in her eyes, displaying a depth that my own lack.

"Waiting for me?" I ask, shimmying up to her.

She smiles. "I'm walking you to English."

"How very polite of you."

"I thought so."

We push through the throngs of people, the two of us too small to make any real progression until the crowds die down a bit. We barely make it to English on time, the teacher giving us a disapproving look, but not saying anything as we interrupt the start of his lecture and duck into our seats.

"I'm going down to the office at lunch," I hiss into Angela's ear, pulling out my notebook and pens.

"Why?"

"I'm going to see if I can change my subjects."

"Is that allowed?" asks Angela. "There was a no swapping policy last year."

"I don't know, but it's worth a shot. Do you know what we did in Drama last lesson?"

"What?"

"We acted out our _inner_ _caged beasts._"

"What's an inner caged beast?"

"I have no idea, that's why it was so weird. Mr Daggery didn't even bother to explain what anything meant and then praised anyone who was making a complete fool out of themselves."

"That's acting for you."

"No that poor teaching," I say indignantly. "Will you come with me? That Lauren girl from my German class said she'd come too."

"Lauren Mallory?"

"I don't know. She's really blonde."

"Yeah that's her."

"Well, she said she'd come with me; she wants to change her own classes and force in numbers seemed a good approach," I say.

"Sure, I suppose. I'd like to take up Art," says Angela thoughtfully.

"Maybe you could be in my class," I say. "It'd be nice having to sit next to someone other than a Cullen."

"Are they giving you the creeps?"

"Sort of. Emmett looks like he could accidentally crush me if he wanted," I say with a half-hearted chuckle.

"He probably could. I don't dislike the Cullens or anything, but there's something weird looking about them. Know what I mean?" asks Angela

"I get you. They're almost too perfect, if such a thing exists," I say.

Angela nods. "It's like somebody made a collage out of hundreds of model's facial features, but had cut outs all different sizes," she says.

"A bit like when someone has too much plastic surgery," I say.

"Exactly."

My History lesson afterwards is equally as dull as English and drags on until I can feel my mind turning into a sluggish mess. I tap my pen impatiently, waiting for the day to be over already so I can visit the grocery store.

There's a complex of stores in the heart of Forks, a collection of buildings that are a little run down, but retain rustic small-town feel that I remember from my childhood. Stephanie's Diner is beating heart of the town, standing out strongly in my memories for having delicious milkshakes and a family-friendly atmosphere, but is now apparently rivalled by a café and a sushi restaurant that Charlie reluctantly admitted were relatively decent.

The grocery store—if I remember correctly—makes most of its money from beer and beef jerky and lacks the variety for me to make much more than mac 'n' cheese. It's better than nothing and, until I can make a trip out of town up to Port Angeles, will have to do. I'm sure Charlie will be thrilled with homemade macaroni in any case.

I'm not as good of a cook as my mother, but my skills in the kitchen vastly outshine Charlie's. I wonder if he remembers my mother's food. The natural flair she had for fine flavours could have even the most uptight food connoisseurs drooling. Even as her fads came and went her cooking was an appetizing delight that I always looked forward to at the end of the day. Though those days are gone a part of me is rather excited at the prospect of cultivating my own culinary skills.

I mentally square my shoulders and take a good look around the room. This is my new life for the foreseeable future and it's time I stopped moping and whining for the past and start focusing in the now. New opportunities are everywhere if I can pull myself out of my own brain numbing misery just long enough to find them.

There are obvious clusters of friends who sit close to each other, occasionally whispering in the other's ear conspiratorially. I never really had that with Lindsey and Bailey. Our friendship had been based around girl's nights out, shopping, parties, boys and who could get the most attention. I wasn't particularly good at any of these things, but tagged along in my mother's Mercedes nonetheless.

I'm pleased to discover that though I've barely been here a few days I'm beginning to recognise a few faces. A couple of the guys meet my sweeping scrutiny with a smirk, the new-girl allure drawing in a few appreciative once-overs. I challenge their sleaziness with a quirked eyebrow that they contest with their own waggling brows.

Jessica sits behind me at the back of the class and with her lackeys missing she looks sullenly disinterested with life in general. She fidgets and exhales inappropriately loud, throwing coy looks at the young teacher who seems to forget everything about his subject the moment she bats her eyelashes at him.

"I heard you and the Christian talking," she says, leaning over my shoulder, her potent perfume clogging my nose with sickly cherries and candyfloss.

"Excuse me?"

"In English. You and the Pastor's daughter. You're going to complain about lessons or some shit."

"That wasn't really for you to hear," I say, pursing my lips. I have a strong dislike for eavesdroppers. It's not polite.

"Whatever. You weren't exactly talking quietly, it's not my fault I could hear what you were saying," she says, the lack of company ridding her voice of any of the stupid baby-talk and bringing her pitch down to one that doesn't upset dog's ears.

"Well, you obviously have something to say on the matter," I say, crossing my arms over my chest as if to protect myself from the oncoming trap I sense.

"I have some advice, actually."

I scoff and lean away from her bubble gum breath.

She comes closer. "Listen, Isa-whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, I'm trying to be nice, so climb off your high horse and open your fucking ears."

My cheeks flush and I bite my lip to clamp off any indignant insults. I virtually feel her smirk as she leans further forward, her fuzzy hair tickling my shoulder.

"It was Lauren's idea to go up to the office wasn't it?" she asks.

I nod, attempting to hide my discomfort at her hot breath in my ear.

"Ugh. That bitch is always complaining, I'm not surprised she's trying to get the new girl to do her bidding. She's jealous of me, did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"I'm not stupid. Hot? Yes. Stupid? No. I know she wants to be top dog, she's just not _enough _to be anyone around here. She's like a limp fish. Cold and lifeless. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is the only reason she wants to swap classes is so that she has a chance of sitting next to Jasper Cullen. She's such a sado. The Cullens are a bunch of freaks. I wouldn't want one to touch me let alone fuck me."

"I don't really see what this has got to do with me," I hiss into her ear, watching the teacher pace at the front of the class, sweating in concentration as he tries to remember his over rehearsed presentation.

"She's using you, dumbass."

"I knew that already, but what's it got to do with you anyway?"

"I know Lauren, Princess. She's not very inventive and does the same act over and over again. Katie joined this school just before the Cullens and Lauren tried the same thing then. It starts with small stuff—_help me with this, go do that—_and then she brings in the big guns. She'll draw you in, manipulate you then turn everyone against you," says Jessica, revelling in the very idea of such drama.

"I can look after myself, thanks. And I still don't see why this is any of your business."

"Everything that goes down here is my business. I'm queen bee and I protect my crown. No blonde bitch is going to try and overthrow me."

I'm about to reply when the teacher pipes up timidly from the front of the class.

"Miss Stanley, could you please sit down?" he asks, barely able to look at the girl, let alone put any conviction in his voice.

"Of course, Sir," purrs Jessica, sliding back into her seat, visibly making the unfortunate man sweat in his tweed jacket.

She agitatedly fiddles with her pen, tapping it and audibly gnawing on the end, her mouth making nasty saliva noises. I'm close to spinning around and demanding she stop when she evidently can't contain herself any longer and leans in close again.

"Look, that wasn't even why I wanted to talk to you in the first place, you side tracked me. I wanted to talk about your arrangement with Lauren. I know she told you to come and sit with us at our table," whispers Jessica from behind me.

"She said to come at get her at lunch," I correct her.

"Yeah, yeah, same thing. I don't want the Christian anywhere near our table and I heard her say she's coming with you."

I scowl. "Angela can go wherever she wants," I snap.

"Except near me. You don't know everything about Miss Prissy-Panties and let me assure you she's not as innocent as she looks. But, anyway, all I'm saying is we'll meet you outside the front office instead, okay?"

"I don't think that's necessary," I say, my frown deepening. "She hasn't got a disease you know."

"She may as well have the Social-Suicide Disease for all the damage she'll do to me."

"Oh please," I hiss.

"Whatever, Princess, just meet us outside the front office doors, I can't be assed to deal with this shit right now," Jessica demands.

She doesn't acknowledge my presence after that, but I find it hard to focus on the teacher. I'm shaking with fury, my ears hot with the waves of anger I feel coursing through my body. Angela is one of the sweetest people I know and I don't know how to defend her without pissing off a clear psyco-bitch.

Jessica pushes past me roughly when History ends. I watch her strut off towards her friends at the end of the corridor, her squeaking voice audible over the loud rumble of students slamming lockers and pushing their way to their next classes. She doesn't glance back at me, instead saunters off as if our conversation never took place.

I shake my head. How _that _girl has managed to become popular I'll never know. At my old school she wouldn't have even made it close to the top of the social ladder, let alone be the It Girl. Her ruthlessness must be the only thing going for her.

Ducking behind an open locker I pull out the awful, puffy, florescent yellow coat from my bag, pulling the hood low over my face before anyone can realise the new girl is wearing such a hideous thing. Charlie found it for me the night before, bemused at the revelation I hadn't come prepared with my own coat. The sunny, fur-edged crime against fashion had once belonged to my mother in her teenage-years and, as I walk out into the afternoon's snow contaminated air, I can still catch a hint of her old perfume hanging onto the neck of it.

Classroom B17 is empty when I arrive, excluding Ms Clement and Emmett Cullen. The large man is hunched over the desk, crayons spilt over his table in a chaotic rainbow. Ms Clement regards me warmly as I enter her room; her long, patterned skirt swoops around her tiny ankles as she lays out the lessons materials. She has flip-flops on and how her toes aren't blue I have no idea.

"Isabella," she coos, "nobody else is here yet I'm afraid, other than Emmett, of course. He got here extra early. Making up for last time aren't you, dear?"

Emmett looks up from his drawing, his dark curls bouncing. His eyes centre on me, retaining a blank, dead appearance for one appalling moment before visibly brightening.

"I'm not usually late," he informs me, a crayon still grasped inelegantly in his hand, "but Edward was feeling sick."

"Oh," I say, hesitating at the door, suddenly unsure if Ro's threat extends to lessons too. "Edward's your brother, isn't he?"

"Yeah," says Emmett with a broad grin. "Eddie's been with us for years now. He gets sick easily though. If he's scared he gets sick, if he's tired he gets sick and sometimes he just gets sick for no reason."

"I'm sorry," I say, not sure how to deal with so much illness in one day.

"It's alright, Bella. Do you want to see the card I'm making him?" he asks, clearing out a space in the mountain of crayons.

"Sure," I say, tentatively approaching, "is it his birthday or something?"

"No," says Emmett sadly. "He's in hospital again."

"Oh." Well that explains his absence.

I'm uncertain what I'm supposed to say to that and so perch on the chair next to Emmett's, leaning over to look at his card. Again I'm not sure if his drawing is revolutionary or dreadful. This time the picture depicts an obvious representation of Edward: an orange haired stick-man who lies in a hospital bed, surrounded by disproportionately large flowers.

"Do you like it?" asks Emmett hopefully, his eyes bright and his teeth dazzlingly white as he smiles.

"Oh—uh—it's uh…" I fumble, blushing at his close proximity and my inability to string a couple of words together.

Emmett's beauty is undeniable. Even his scent is delicious, spicy and dangerous in a way that has my heart thudding nervously. His smile widens and I swallow noisily.

"Emmett is inspired by cubism," interrupts Ms Clement, thankfully drawing Emmett's attention away from me. "It's a nice change from all these pop-art projects I see going on."

"I like Jean Metzinger," he informs her.

"I know, dear, and you replicate his work most affectively."

"But with my own unique twist."

"Indeed. It's rather refreshing."

Emmett beams at the praise, turning back to me with a face brimming with angelic joy. He turns his card towards me, cocking his head to the side with curiosity.

"Do you think he'll like it?" he asks.

"I don't really know your brother," I mumble, "but I'm sure he'll love that you went to all this trouble for him."

Emmett nods in agreement, picking up a grey crayon to etch in the hospital room's details. "I hope so. He gets really bored in the hospital and Esme is always fussing about him. It's enough to drive anyone doolally."

I chuckle. "Is Esme another of your adopted sisters?"

"No. She's our mother. She's ever so clingy when it comes to Edward. I think she's worried he'll blow away in the wind if we don't keep an extra close eye on him. Carlisle says it's the mothering instinct and I think he might just be right. Even Rosie treats him like her baby," babbles Emmett.

"Is Ro your girlfriend?" I ask affectionately, enjoying the way his face glows when he mentions her name.

"Wife."

"Oh," I gasp, slightly taken aback.

"I know," chuckles Emmett. "She's out of my league, isn't she?"

The class has filled whilst I've been distracted and our discussion has brought with it a few gawks. I try my best to ignore them and the hushed whispers, but my heated face betrays me.

We don't really talk an awful lot during the lesson after that. I focus to the best of my ability on the half-decent sketch of my mother's home, shading in the fairy tale picket fence and _Mr and Mrs _painted mailbox, but I'm too aware of the man next to me to draw properly. My elbow brushes against his arm at one point and though he doesn't seem to notice I'm stunned by the rock hard muscles I feel.

I've felt up jocks before. Groped them whilst drunk at a house party and been encouraged to run my hands down a six-pack now and then, but that's nothing compared to what I accidentally discover. It's like he's tensing all his muscles at once, each hard as granite. His body is every jocks dream, physical perfection to the extreme. My heart flounders in my chest; appreciative, but intimidated beyond belief. He must live on protein shakes and weight lifting.

I tell Angela about it in graphic detail at lunch. She giggles at my story and we both take sneaky glances at their table. Only Ro and Emmett sit together, the other's missing. I wonder if they're all at the hospital to comfort Edward or if the two absent Cullens are out enjoying the snow like a majority of the other students.

"I see all the guys looking at Emmett's arms so enviously I think they're going to turn green sometimes," says Angela, pulling me back to our conversation. "I think if they could beat him in any sport, may it be table tennis or water hockey, they'd never stop boasting about it."

"Maybe they should stop feeling sorry for themselves and take a leaf out of his book. It's not difficult to go work out," I say. "Any improvement would be appreciated, they're all a bit…soft at the moment."

"Oh, don't be mean," chides Angela in good humour, "Tyler is quite fit."

"_Please,_" I contradict, "his legs are like match sticks."

"Mike's quite strong."

"Mike is fat."

"No he's not! He's just a little meaty," she refutes, rallying to his defence,

"You really need to get out of Forks more. That boy is pudgy. You should have seen the guys at my old school."

"Oh?" prompts Angela.

"There was this one guy—Jackson I think his name was—now he was no Emmett, but he had abs you could grate stone on. They were shamefully defined," I gush. "And then there was our quarterback Chad, his body rippled—_rippled—_with muscle."

"Were you popular at your old school?"

"Relatively. I got into all the parties and pretty much everyone knew who I was. My friends were more popular than me. They got all the guys, but because they weren't cheerleaders the football players wouldn't date them. It was really cliquey. You could screw who you wanted and it was fine, but being together was a sort of social status. Really weird," I reminisce.

"Did you ever…you know…get off with any of the football players?" asks Angela, eyes wide, my old life clearly an interesting novelty.

"I kissed a few at a party, but if you're asking about sex, then no," I say.

"Didn't you want to or…" she trails off, face tinged pink.

"I was going to," I say, feeling a bit silly. "With my boyfriend."

"But?"

"But I'd decided to move away by then and I didn't want to get more attached than I already was," I admit, a slight swell of sadness rising in my chest.

"What was his name?"

"Jeremy Mckenna. He was from Scotland and had this accent that could turn any girl to jelly," I say with a fond smile.

"Did you love him?"

Jeremy had been kind and handsome, but also childish and tactless. He'd been very charming and had quickly worked his magic so that every girl who knew his name was utterly and madly besotted with him. He wasn't stupid either, which was a plus, but his intelligence was rather flat. He didn't have much depth and couldn't hold a conversation of any real value with me, but made up for it with touches and kisses. I had fancied him. Like him quite a lot, even. But loved him?

"Not really," I say. "I think I just liked having a boyfriend more than anything else. I was the last one in my group of friends to get one. I think I miss them more than I miss him."

"I wouldn't know. I've never had a boyfriend. My dad forbade it," admits Angela.

"Oh please, you're seventeen!"

"Yeah, I know, but try explaining that to him."

"You're not missing out on much," I concede. "As we just established, Forks is lacking decent men. It's like they say: all the good men are either gay or married. Speaking of which, did you know Emmett's married?"

"Nope, but it's not very surprising."

"Isn't it?" I ask.

"No. The Cullens are just odd, Isabella. After a while it'll sink in. It wouldn't surprise me if you said they were all a bunch of serial killers," she snickers.

"Do you think the keep the bodies of their victims in the basement?" I laugh.

"Nope. I think they probably let them rot inside the walls. That's why their house is so huge."

It doesn't surprise me that the Cullens have a large house. They're all dressed in expensive clothes so obviously they have money. I wouldn't put it past them to have the biggest house in Forks.

"Where do they even live?" I ask. There are rarely any houses on the market here, the odd one popping up when an old person dies or someone builds a complex down on the Indian reservation nearby.

"In the southern outskirts of town. They bought an absurd amount of the land and build this outrageous mansion. It's big enough to fit at least ten of my house inside of it and has to be fifty percent glass," says Angela.

"It's a glass house?"

"Yup. I went up there with Mom to greet them when they first moved in. You could see everything. I mean, it's far away from everyone and is hidden by the forest so I suppose it doesn't really matter, but I'd feel pretty exposed if I lived there. Apparently Mrs Cullen designed it herself."

"Maybe she's an exhibitionist," I suggest.

"Like I said, wouldn't surprise me."

I see Jessica get up from her table with Lauren and walk purposefully towards the door. Jessica's skirt has flipped up a bit at the back and I think I see a flash of ass-cheek before she flattens it down. There's not an ounce of modesty in that girl.

I exchange aloof eye contact with them before they disappear out of the back door and into the parking lot, the group of girls they leave behind looking a little lost and uncomfortable without them. I pity the poor sheep, eyeing each other distrustfully whilst waiting for another girl to slip up and make a fool out of herself.

"We should get going," I say, "we're meeting Lauren and Jessica outside the office."

"Jessica's coming too?" Angela sounds nervous, almost afraid.

"Yeah, is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine," she mumbles.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"No it's okay. I just don't particularly like her, that's all."

"I don't think anybody likes her," I say with an encouraging smile.

"I suppose," she says reluctantly.

"You really can stay here," I insist, taking in her rapidly paling complexion, "I'll ask about your classes for you."

"No, I'm good, I promise."

We make our way out into the cold, the snow swirling around us and dissolving into our hair. It's so cold I'm sure my lips have become so chapped they're bleeding and my fingers and toes are starting to go numb. I keep my coat stuffed in my bag, the goading I'm sure to receive from Jessica and Lauren not worth all twenty digits.

There are a few people gathered around their cars outside, sat upon the hoods or ducking behind hubcaps to dodge an onslaught of snowballs. The girls squeal indignantly, some flirtatiously other genuinely annoyed when their makeup get ruined by the slush. Cars pull out nervously, leaving for lunch in the town of perhaps bunking off for the rest of the day. I'm sort of considering going home myself.

"Did you and Jessica have a falling out?" I ask as we walk past the various outdated cars.

"Sort of," says Angela. "She's my cousin."

"Your cousin?"

"Yup."

"You don't look anything alike."

"She's my dad's half-sister's daughter," she explains.

"But why aren't you two close then?" I ask. "Surely being cousins would bring you together."

"Our dad's had a falling out. It's a personal family matter," she says, nervously picking at the buttons down the front of her dress. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Sure, sure, I understand," I say. "Hey, look, over there."

Lauren and Jessica are seated inside small boxy looking car with Lauren's butt sticking outside in a rather unladylike fashion, obviously searching for something under the seat. I have to admit, it's one of the few better vehicles parked up in the lot, but is a shocking pink that makes me do a double take.

"Is that Jessica's car?" I ask.

"Can you tell from the subtleness?"

"It's very pink."

"Probably not pink enough if you were to ask her," snarks Angela as we cross over the road.

I get the distinct feeling she truly loathes Jessica, her pleasant demeanour souring the closer we get to the girls. However, her face is pale and there's definite fear in her eyes as we approach the car, her insistent fingers managing to pick off a button from her dress in anxiousness.

"It'll be fine," I say, "honestly. She can't be that bad."

"I know, plus I have you to protect me from their evil coven, right?" says Angela with a touch of forced humour.

"Of course, I'm an expert in witch hunting," I joke.

Darting ahead, I raise a hand in greeting and open my mouth to call out to them when my voice is cut off by a sickening, ear-splitting squeal. I freeze mid-step and for the first fraction of a second I'm not quite sure what I'm seeing, my brain unable to compute the fast paced course of events. But then I recognise the panel of black hurtling towards me as the death-trap it really is and my stomach drops.

The truck—smaller than mine, but still formidable—skids towards me, out of control and unable to grip the ice. I stare at it with my legs locked and immobile, leaving me a frightened deer caught—quite literally—in the headlights. There's no time to step back, no time to do anything other than stand there and let myself be crushed against the cars flanking either side me.

I think I try to say something, call out or scream maybe, but my throat has gone dry and is unable to vocalise any of my dying trepidation. The only thing I can do I glance up at the people around me and watch their morphing expressions of alarm as they too realise what's happening. I feel an echo of surprise when I realise that the final thing I'll ever see are the looks upon the two missing Cullens' faces, both horror-struck as the truck slams painfully into my body.

"_NO!"_

A feminine, divine voice cuts across the parking lot, unfamiliar, but so perfect that I've come to recognise it as belonging to a Cullen. Alice's expletive is heard over the shriek of grinding metal and popping glass and is so forceful that at first—my addled brain not quite grasping reality like it usually would—I think it is this which sends me flying back across the road.

I can see her, face twisted obscenely, her mouth hanging open in a wide _O _and her hand extended as if to grab me. And she is so absolutely tiny that I can't imagine such a noise could come from her lungs, but then I remember I'm supposed to be dead and I forget to care enough to think about it much longer.

I try to thrash around wildly, my survival instincts finally kicking in only to realise I'm unable move, my arms locked to my sides and my head held back at an awfully uncomfortable angle. It's like I've been ensnared by unbreakable, icy bonds or maybe my spine has just snapped in two like a pencil.

Through the heavy fog of my panic clouded vision I see the truck that I had thought hit me continuing to approach—its windows smashed and a large dent visible in its passenger-side door. I try to turn onto my hands and knees to crawls away, but instead bring my face into contact with a leather jacket that's saturated with the scent of sex and cinnamon.

A grunt of exasperation above me brings my attention to the face of yet another Cullen. I go slack in his arms as our eyes meet, somehow finding myself entranced even in such a dire situation, his scent wooing me into a state of inexplicable pliancy.

He looks away, but the calm remains. Despite the suppleness of my brain I gather from my violently shaking body that physically I might not be in such a soothed state.

I watch, mesmerised, as Jasper Cullen reaches out with one hand and halts the truck in its trajectory, leaving an identical dent to the one already in its side. It shudders against the resistance, screeching as he grips the underside with bone-white fingers until, finally, it gives up and sits still over the ice.

He exhales in relief, a small smile curling his wide mouth. I glance from him to the truck and then back again, unable to understand, yet finding the will to do so slipping away fast as the blondest of the Cullens looks thoughtfully down at me.

He doesn't say a word, just shakes his head when I try to extract myself from his grip. I sink back down onto the glacial road, starting to notice a sharp pain in my leg and left hip that isn't helped by the cold. Over the howls and screams of the witnessing students I hear Angela calling my name.

"_Bella! Bella! Oh my god, Bella!"_ she wails.

I try to reply to her, to put her at ease, but I seem to have not regained my voice yet. Jasper pats my shoulder, carefully, his nose wrinkling as if he caught a whiff of something foul. He looks quickly away from me, clearly uncomfortable at out close vicinity stuck behind the pretzeled remains of the truck, and I can't say I blame him. We're almost inappropriately close, close enough my cheeks floods with blood.

"Get Tyler out of the car!" someone yells and I hear the pop of the door being opened.

"Is she dead?" calls someone else, eliciting a fierce sob in the distance.

A head appears over the side of the car, tentatively peeking over as if expecting the worst, but unable to look away.

"Jesus, you're alive," gasps Lauren.

"Just," I manage to croak out.

"Don't move," she instructs, "someone's calling an ambulance. That goes for the both of you. If either one of you ruptures an organ now I'm holding you personally responsible."

I think Jasper nods, I'm not entirely sure, but then Lauren disappears again, shouting out the good news of my survival.

After a while the truck is pried off of us by a group of teachers and students who spill out of the school moments after the accident. I'm not allowed to move until the ambulance arrives and even then the paramedics insist I stay down. I don't argue the matter, becoming increasingly conscious of the aches and pains in my body. As I'm strapped onto a stretcher my composure slips away and Jasper is soon miraculously replaced by Charlie's frantic form.

"Is she okay?" he barks at a paramedic as I'm loaded into a van. "Is she hurt? Any internal injuries? Answer me, goddamn it!"

"I'm fine, dad," I try to say, but my voice is too weak and crackly for him to hear.

The paramedics try to placate him, but are unsuccessful and I find any strength I may have had slowly sapping from my body, exhaustion taking over to the point I find I'm unable to even try to reply.

Before my eyes flutter close to both my father's and the paramedics' distress, I wonder just how Jasper Cullen managed to stop an entire truck in its tracks and—more importantly—why he'd even bother in the first place.

A/N

An extra long chapter (and an extra quick update) as an extra awesome Xmas present. Don't you feel lucky? We'd like to give a big thanks to Jennyicyblue, sujari6, TexasTwilight77, huntingforwitches and SunflowerFran for commenting and everyone else who has Favorited, Followed and bothered to read our story.

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	4. Chapter Four: Rejection

Disclaimer: Twilight doesn't belong to no-shizzle but Steph-Meyer-bizzle-rizzle. I have some awesome slang instead. Word.

Rejection

"Isabella?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can you hear me?"

"Mmhmm."

"Can you open your eyes?"

I'm inclined not to, to keep them closed and drift for a while longer in the pleasant warmth and hazy dreamscape. But then something icy cold brushes against my forehead and my eyes spring open.

At first I think I'm dead. The room is so white and the angel so breathtakingly beautiful that I'm sure I've woken in the heaven I once ridiculed. I flounder in his perfection: the golden eyes and hair; the full, pink lower lip; and soft features that have just enough of a ruggedness around the jawline to give him an age anywhere between 15 and 30.

But then I see the white doctor's coat and the stethoscope around his neck and, more importantly, the head of Charlie poking up from behind his shoulder.

_"__Dad?"_ I rasp, trying to reach out for him.

The doctor catches my arm in a grip like iced marble, placing my arm by my side with a gentle force that I can't resist even if I wanted to. He smiles at me kindly and gauges my reaction as I take in the cast on my leg and the tubes poking out of my wrist. Ugh. Yuck.

"It's alright, Bells. You're okay. The Doctor's here," says Charlie, worry laced tightly in his voice. "You're alright, honey."

"Isabella, my name is Doctor Cullen. How are you feeling?" asks the doctor, his lips pulling up into a slight, but reassuring smile.

"Fine," I croak, trying to sit up.

"No, no. Stay down, you don't want to hurt yourself. How's your head?" he asks, finger pressing against my skull lightly.

"It's…uh…It's fine, I guess."

"Are you sure? My son said you may have cracked it on the ice when the van nearly hit you both."

"Your son?" my head swirls, images curdling together like globules of paint.

"Jasper Cullen. You two were very lucky you know," says the Doctor, leaning back from his place perched on the bed.

"We were?"

"Yes. _Very _lucky."

"I'll have to thank your boy personally, Carlisle," says Charlie, placing a hand on the golden god's shoulder, "if he hadn't have pulled her out of the way in time I'd…I…"

"But he did Chief Swan. That's what matters. Isabella is going to be fine," says Dr Cullen, twisting his body so as to pat Charlie's arm in comfort.

"All the same. I owe it to the boy—to your family—to thank him myself. Most people freeze in situations like that, watch themselves get crushed to death without moving an inch. If your boy ever wants to join the police force he'd go far with reflexes like that."

"It's one of his many gifts, Chief Swan. I've never seen him loose a baseball match."

"I don't doubt it."

The two men share a look of acknowledgment and I groan as my head swirls with confusion. Dr Cullen's head snaps back to me, the pads of his fingers fluttering over my face like a butterfly's wing.

"What hurts?" he asks.

"Nothing, nothing," I insist, ignoring Charlie who begins to fuss at my bedside.

"The Doctor is here to help you, Bella," he says, "but he can't do that if you won't tell him what's wrong."

"_Isabella_," I mutter. "I'm fine, honest."

Neither of them appear to believe me, but I pretend to not notice their disbelieving looks and, instead, stare at my IV mutilated hands.

"If you're sure, Miss Swan."

"I am."

"Well then, if you need anything press this button and a nurse will come and help you. I'll visit back later," he says, giving my hand a small pat before standing to shake my father's hand.

"If you see your son…"

"I'll send him straight to you," chuckles Carlisle. "Don't look so glum, Chief. Your daughter is going to be fine. Aren't you, Isabella?"

"Definitely," I say, fighting off nausea.

The Doctor leaves, his white coat swooping dramatically as if out of a movie. His golden hair catches in the draft the opening of the door brings as he throws us a perfectly executed smile. Before the door closes behind him I see a nurse falter in her tracks as he passes by. Charlie seems to notice it too.

"I'm glad I'm too old to have ever gone to school with him," he says, sitting down in the chair by my bedside.

"Who? Doctor Cullen?"

"Mhmm"

"Why?" I ask, bewildered. "He seems lovely."

"Exactly. Charming and pretty. I would never have had a chance with any of the ladies," he says with a hint of a cheeky grin.

"I thought you were always complaining that Harry and Billy used to steal all of your _ladies_," I snigger.

"They did, but with Carlisle Cullen around I doubt anyone else would've gotten a second thought. Blondes are your mother's type after all. And, you know, I've seen his children. It's like they've all been pictureshopped."

"Photoshopped."

"Exactly. Doesn't really surprise me though. They _are _his kids,"

"They're all adopted, dad," I sigh heavily.

"I know that, but beautiful people get beautiful things. It's the circle of life, Bella. And I mean have you seen Mrs Cullen? Now there's a woman I wished I'd known in my younger years."

"Ugh, please, dad."

"What? I'm only saying it like it is."

"Well don't."

"Why? Mrs Cullen is a hottie."

"Eww. Stop," I groan.

"I hear young boys talking about her, too. What did they call her? A MILF?"

"_Dad! Stop_."

He laughs robustly. "I'm just teasing you, kiddo."

"You should find a hobby instead of annoying me," I mumble.

"That is my hobby."

"Get a new one."

He reaches up to wipe away something from my cheek. "How are you feeling, honey?"

"Like I said. I'm fine."

"But really. Don't sugar coat it. I've been your dad for seventeen years, I know what you're like."

Anger cuts through my belly sharper than a knife or the pain throbbing in my leg. How dare he? Seventeen years? Collectively he's seen me for about two of those years in total, if that. Phil's been around more and that guy has no concept of family life at all. I want to say all of this, to rip out my IV and march all the way to the airport and straight onto the next plane to Phoenix. But I don't. I bite my tongue until tears well up and Charlie withdraws sharply.

"Damn. Did I hurt you, Bells? Shall I get the nurse? What do you need?" he babbles, searching frantically for the source of the perceived physical pain.

"No, no. I'm fine," I whimper, tears leaving silver tracks down my cheeks. "I just miss Mom, that's all. I wish she was here. She's not much of a comforter, I know, but I want her."

"Oh, Bella," he says, trying to pull me into a hug.

I flinch out of his embrace, sniffling pathetically and blinking back misty tears. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's okay," he says, sitting back stiffly in his chair.

"I just miss her."

"I know, honey, I know."

I let him hold my arm more for his benefit than mine. Sure, he's not going to cry, he's Chief Swan, the butchest man in Forks, but I can see a vein throbbing in his temple from the stress of the situation.

A faint knock wraps on the door, not hesitant, but respectfully quiet. Ignoring Charlie's attempts to keep me lying down, I sit up in a more comfortable position and try to sort out the tangled slick of my hair as the door creaks open.

At first I'm confused, not expecting the beaming face that peaks inside, much lower to the ground than I'd anticipated. Alice Cullen enters my hospital room with fairy-like grace holding the hand of a pained-looking Jasper Cullen. My savoir.

Though his face looks to be in discomfort I see no signs of trauma on his body. In fact, in such a plain room both Cullens look enthral. It makes me feel unusually unattractive and I flush at the thought they're seeing me with bird nest hair.

"Chief Swan," Alice's voice chimes, dancing forward to introduce herself. "I'm Alice Cullen and this is—"

"Jasper Cullen," interrupts Charlie, standing up and extending his hand. "You saved my daughter."

Jasper's eyes flick nervously to Charlie's hand before carefully taking it into his own, standing ram-rod straight, his jaw flexing. The handshake is short and jerky, but Charlie shrugs off any awkwardness by smiling so broadly his eyes become two winkled slits.

"Jasper Hale," corrects Alice with a kind smile. "Not all of my adopted siblings took Dr Cullen's last name."

"Oh, right. I was just talking to Dr Cullen and I need to thank you," says Charlie gruffly. "If you hadn't been standing next to her…"

Jasper's gaze darts, just for a second, over towards me. Our eyes hold and in that fraction of a moment I see something nervous behind his steely expression. I feel a tug on the back of my mind, thoughts unravelling like a thread on a tapestry. Thick, jumbled memories play behind a layer of mud, too murky to properly decipher. But I think I see him, Jasper. Holding me as the car approaches. Giddy fear pumps out butterflies in my stomach before he looks away and diverts his attention solely to the floor.

"They were _both_ lucky, Chief Swan," says Alice, her voice high and melodic, pixie-features pulled into a sad smile. "It makes me sick to my stomach to think something could have happened to them. Especially seeing as I have barely had the chance to even get to know you, Isabella."

I flounder as she turns on me, her smile widening to a point my heart thuds uncomfortably in my chest. Her expression is a little too informal for someone who's only just met me and a little too knowing to not appear condescending.

"Oh…I..uh…" I stutter as approaches with ballerina strides.

"When I heard that Chief Swan's daughter was returning home I was sure we were going to be friends. I'm just sorry I didn't get a chance to say hello before now," she says, her face instantaneously becoming crestfallen. A pang concern blocks out any unease and I reach out to hold her hand. It's cold and I nearly withdraw.

"It's alright, Alice," I say hesitantly. "I'm sure we can still be friends."

Her face brightens into a stunning smile, her eyes lighting up into golden pools of joy as she takes my hand into both of hers. "I'm glad you said that," she says, "I would really like to be friends, Bella."

Though there nothing inadvertently wrong in what she's saying I can't help but ponder what exactly _troubles _Alice. Her mannerisms are slightly off and deep, deep down I feel an anxiousness that stems directly from her behaviour. There's something forced about her that I've never encountered before.

In the corner of my eye I see Jasper shift ever so slightly, disturbing his statue-like posture. Alice withdraws herself and goes to stand by him, a radiant smile still plastered across her face. They hold each other close, embracing in a fashion that makes Charlie's moustache twitch.

"That's kind of you, Alice," he says. "It's good to know Forks has some good, decent children amongst all the punks around these days. Dr Cullen is a good man, he's doing right by you kids."

"My father is a great man," Alice says proudly. "Loving and compassionate. I feel honoured knowing that he chose to care for me and my siblings when so many people would have given up on us. Even now with Edward—" she stops abruptly, her mouth still parted mid-sentence as her eyes flutter.

Jasper squeezes her shoulder and smooths back short, choppy locks from her forehead.

"I heard about your brother," says my father, pressing his lips together solemnly. "It's a terribly thing, but if anyone can help him it's Dr Cullen. I trust that man with my life."

"I do too," whispers Alice. "But I'm still so very sad for Edward."

"I…um…Emmett said he was in hospital," I pipe up. "Is he okay?"

"In all honesty, no. He's very sick."

"I'm sorry," I say, at a loss of how to comfort someone over their dying brother.

"No need to be sorry. It's not your fault. But—and I know this is presumptuous of me to ask—do you think you could visit him? When you feel better, of course. Edward sees so very few people excluding us and I think Emmett tires him out. It would be nice for him to see a new face."

"Oh…I don't…"

Charlie throws me a look that clearly states I'd better agree, but I nearly died once and I'd rather not be torn to pieces by a vengeful Ro.

"I don't mean to pressure you," says Alice glumly, her bottom lip quivering. "I just worry about him. I'm probably being too forward, I'm sorry."

"No, no. Of course I'll go see him," I say quickly.

Alice's smile returns in all its former glory and Charlie gives me an approving nod.

"It'd mean a lot to me. To Edward and I—" Alice is cut off by the clash of the door flying open.

"Isabella!" cries Angela, running straight past the Cullens to my bedside.

Her face is red and puffy from crying and she looks worse than I feel. She tucks my hair behind my ear in an intimate gesture I've never received from a friend as she sniffles and wipes away free flowing tears with the back of her hand.

"Hey, don't cry," I say, slightly taken aback by her sudden appearance and intensity. "I'm fine, Angela, I promise."

"Oh, Isabella. I thought you were _dead,_" she sobs, "I saw the van crush you. I thought you were _gone."_

"It missed me," I sooth. "I'm okay. Jasper pulled me out of the way."

"Jasper?"

It seems to register with her just now that there are other people in the room. She blinks in surprise as she sees first my father then the two Cullens, one who betrays no real emotion, the other smiling brightly.

"Hello, Angela," says Alice.

"Oh. I'm sorry," mumbles Angela hastily, getting to her feet as a pinkness tinges her cheeks, "I didn't see you."

"It's quite all right. I'm Alice Cullen."

"I know who you are. We have Biology together," says Angela, her blush deepening.

"So we do," laughs Alice. "I must have momentarily forgotten."

Through her embarrassment Angela turns her attention to Jasper, her brow furrowed. "You saved her?"

Jasper nods rigidly.

"I don't remember you," whispers Angela, her voice wavering and unsure. "I mean, it feels like it's still happening now in my head: the breaks squealing; the van skidding; Isabella just standing there. I can't remember you, though."

The scene flashes in my mind precisely as she described. Popping glass. Metal fast approaching. Horror struck faces. Angela. Alice. Jasper. All too far away.

"It happened very fast," I quickly say.

"Nobody can be expected to remember what exactly happened," says Alice kindly.

"I-I suppose you're right," Angela sniffles. "I'm just glad everyone's okay. I checked in with Tyler before I was allowed to come and see you."

"How is he?" I ask.

"He'll be in a lot worse trouble when I'm done with him," snaps Charlie before Angela can reply.

"_Dad," _I scold.

"That kid should know better. Speeding? Especially when it's icy. I have a right mind to suspend his licence."

"It's not his fault," I say, rolling my eyes at Charlie's dramatics. "He just hit the ice wrong."

"And so he can take a hit on his licence for it."

"He could have been killed."

"So could you," says Charlie.

"Accidents happen."

"And so do consequences."

"In all fairness, Chief Swan, I think everyone's been through a lot today," says Alice.

"I agree," I say, trying to cross my arms, but getting caught up in my tubes in the process.

"Tyler did get pretty hurt," whispers Angela.

"But he's okay?" I ask.

"He'll be fine. The doctor said he'll probably scar though."

"Is it bad?"

"It's not _good."_

Alice sighs sadly and absentmindedly strokes Jasper's arm. The gesture is not that of sisterly love and I want to throw Angela a look, but keep my face impassive.

"We should probably be going, Isabella," she says. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Thank you for coming to see me," I say, forcing out a smile.

"It's no problem. I'm glad I did."

"And thank you again, Jasper, for saving me," I say.

Though he doesn't appear to be able to look me in the eyes his lips quirk up into a small, faltering smile.

"We could do with someone like you as an Officer, Jasper," says Charlie, standing as they move towards the door. "Someone who can react well under pressure. If you ever feel like it might be for you, you should come down to the station and have a chat."

Jasper tries to smile broader, but his face ends up looking somewhat broken.

"We'll see you soon. Chief Swan; Angela; Bella," says Alice as they slip out into the corridor.

I wait the appropriate length of time after the door has closed before turning back to Angela with a conspirator's smile. "That was weird."

"I know," agrees Angela, balancing on the edge of my bed, the last of her tears dried on her face.

"The Cullen children are nothing but polite," interjects Charlie. "You could learn something from them, Bells, instead of gawping at the blonde one."

"I wasn't gawping," I snap.

"Sure, honey. You have your mother's taste in men."

"I _don't_," I insist, ignoring the small giggle that escapes Angela.

Charlie turns to Angela whilst she tried to stifle her mirth. "You're Pastor Weber's daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I knew your uncle, Jeremiah, when we were at school. How's he doing?"

"He's doing well, Chief Swan. Uncle Jere volunteers down on the reservation quite a lot," she says, fidgeting nervously under the intimidating scrutiny years of policing has perfected.

"That sounds just like o'l Jez. He always was a helper. What about your Aunt Eve?"

"We don't see her family a lot," mutters Angela, any of her leftover blush draining from her skin.

"Ahh, right…" Charlie picks up on her tone and retreats immediately from the subject. "So you and Isabella are friends then?"

"Dad…"

"I think so," says Angela, warmth returning to her face.

"_Think so? _Is my daughter giving you a hard time?"

"No, no," insists Angela, "I just…uh…I meant we haven't know each other long."

Charlie laughs, enjoying her flustered appearance and my scowl. "I'm glad to know someone is looking out for my daughter. You seem like a good friend, Angela."

She smiles weakly.

He's right though. Angela does seem like a good friend. Nobody has ever shown such concern for me before and I get a sad tingle in my heart when I think about it too long. Forks may be a shitty place to be, but Angela is kind and to a degree so are the Cullens. I feel like I owe it to them to at least try and cheer up the sick boy hidden somewhere in the hospital. He has no Angela to rush to his side and fuss over him.

And who knows, maybe I can actually become friends with Edward before he dies.

A/N

Everyone has been sick. Everyone. Friends, family, pets. I'm shocked we're all still alive. Shout out to sujari6, huntingforwitches and jansails for their comments. It means a lot. And a massive hug to everyone who Read, Followed and Favorited. Seriously. Don't worry we're not going to go all sappy on you, just send you a lot of cyberlovein'.

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	5. Chapter Five: Blood Rite

Disclaimer: Twilight doesn't belong to me. I own nothing. Nothing...

**21/03/15 edited**

Blood Rite

The first thing I see when waking from a long, dreamless sleep is a thicket of dark hair and a pair of honey-flecked eyes that watch me with mild interest.

"You're awake," she says.

I flinch back, her face hovering inches from mine, her breath washing over my face in sickly sweet waves.

"Jesus, Alice," I yelp, blinking blearily at her and rubbing my face with an open palm as she slides down into the chair by the bedside.

I sit up, the hospital blanket crinkling around my waist as I stretch out until my neck pops with a satisfying _crack._ There's the strong, familiar scent of bleach in the air that blots out any of my own natural scent that might have been lingering on the bedding. The florescent light overhead hums, the closed blinds leaving the outside world a mystery and giving me little concept of the passing of time. I notice an unfamiliar stillness about the room and as I glance around through sleep-stuck eyes I find a worrisome lack of company.

"Where's Esme?" I ask.

"She went to get something to eat."

"And the others?"

"Much of the same."

The absence of my adoptive mother unnerves me. After so long without someone to love, I regard Esme as the gift she truly is. The loss of her, even briefly, saddens me.

"You didn't have to stay, Alice," I say through a yawn. "I'm fine by myself."

"I know, but I wanted to in case you woke up. Plus you look funny when you sleep. You drool a bit and move around a lot, like when a dog chases a squirrel in its dream."

"Thanks," I mumble, checking the corners of my mouth for said drool though I know she's only poking fun at me.

"You're welcome," she chimes, snickering at my less than impressed expression.

I hadn't ever really anticipated sisters when I used to dream up the perfect family, but I find Alice to be kind in all the ways that really matter. On those times where I cannot read her face, her eyes guarded and her mouth fixed into the perfect mask of delight, I remind myself of this, that her intentions are most likely of good intent. Or, at least, I trust she wouldn't do something that would embarrass me too much.

"What's the time?"

"Nineish. You've slept all day. Carlisle said you should try and stay awake in the day time."

I shrug. Without a clock by my bedside and the outside world cut off, day and night have blurred seamlessly into one making it difficult to keep my usual routine.

"Speaking of dreams," I say, "care to analyse?"

Alice's interest in horoscopes, palm readings and the like allows me to feel somewhat confident in revealing this small part of myself to her. It's been a learning curve, trusting people, but the closeness that comes with it is worth the occasional ridiculing.

"Go on," she encourages, "I hope it's nothing too…_personal_."

I roll my eyes. "I was in Italy," I say, brow furrowed as I try to recall the stream of quickly slipping events, "at least I think I was. It was all very white, like someone had whitewashed the town and the doors of all the houses kept on turning into people so I couldn't go inside. I was trying to find Carlisle, because he had a gift for me, but I couldn't find him. I could hear him calling for me though, you were all shouting for me, but I wasn't sure where the noise was coming from. The longer I looked the whiter everything got until I couldn't see anything at all."

"Did you find us?" asks Alice.

"No."

Alice looks speculative and at first I think she's going to give me a blow-by-blow analysis of my dream as she usually does. Instead, she reaches out with hands skinnier than my own and grasps my shoulder firmly.

"You'll never loose us, Ed," she says. "I promise. Carlisle put a GPS tracker on your phone."

I snort at her and wriggle out of her grip.

"That makes me feel so much better. I didn't know I had to be monitored 24/7."

"You don't. We do it for entertainments sake. There's only so many times a person can walk past the girl's changing rooms in a day without his morals coming into question."

"That's funny, Alice," I say, voice laced with sarcasm.

"So's your face."

I roll my eyes which makes Alice smile widely and roll next to me on the bed, head propped up on her hands as she lounges close by my side. Her hair tickles my arm as she tilts her face towards me, expression grave in a way that suggests no seriousness at all.

"I saw Isabella Swan today," she says, voice solemn, but eyes dipped in playfulness.

I blanch.

"Y-you did?" I splutter.

My reaction makes Alice's eyes gleam and she reaches out to pinch my quickly reddening cheek.

"Cute," she says as I slap her hand away. "She said she was going to come and visit you later on. She was very keen, in fact."

"Alice, I don't want to see anyone," I insist, my face burning so hot I try to cringe back from myself. _Especially not her and especially not when I'm looking like this._

"She seemed pretty insistent on coming," says Alice, her tone sing-song.

"You haven't been pestering her have you? I don't need people from school paying me visits, I have you guys. Everyone else just looks at me like I'm about to keel over and die."

"No they don't, Edward."

"They do. I know what they're all thinking when they see me. They think I'm going to kick the bucket any day now; some of them have bets on the date. You know what they call me, Alice? Cancer Cullen."

"Not all of the kids are like that," says Alice softly. "There are always a few nasty, inconsiderate people no matter where you go, but not everyone is so vile. Isabella cares about you."

I snort, a real derisive snort this time.

"You're romanticising the situation. We've talked maybe once or twice and I made myself look like a stupid idiot both times. I couldn't even look her in the eye."

"You couldn't look at me when you first arrived, but look at us now," says Alice bumping her shoulder against mine. It's surprisingly cool, but I've come to expect that from her. She has blood circulation problems. "Now you're my favourite brother."

"I thought that was Jasper."

Alice grimaces in distaste. "Technicalities. However, the point still remains. You should get to know her Edward. It'd make Esme happy to see you making friends. It'd make me happy."

My hands reach up to run through my hair, a reflexive gesture to stress, but when they run over short fluffy down instead of longish, thick stands my stomach drops and my self-esteem takes a hit.

"I think she's just being polite, you know. Friends is a bit of a jump right now, don't you think?"

Alice makes an uncharacteristically masculine noise halfway between a laugh and a huff. "No offence Edward, but I think she could use a friend as much as you could."

I flush a little. "I don't _need _anyone."

"Sure you don't," she placates me, "but that Swan girl, she's about as cheerful as a funeral."

"She seemed alright to me," I mumble, warming at the thought of large eyes, plump lips and all that long, dark hair.

"I'll bet," laughs Alice, pinching my side sharply, something Esme regularly chastises her for. I don't actually mind it so much, it doesn't really hurt and if anything somehow manages to make me feel truly validated as her brother. A childish rite of passage.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" she asks innocently, watching my reaction so closely that it's this rather than the question that makes my face burn.

"She's alight, I guess. I wouldn't know."

"Why not? You're a boy, aren't you? Emmett thinks she's pretty."

"No he doesn't," I mutter, avoiding eye contact.

"Yes he does. He said she wasn't ugly."

"That doesn't mean he thinks she's pretty."

"He has been talking about her a lot though…" she teases.

"Emmett talks about cats a lot, that doesn't mean he's s-sexually attracted to them," I say matter-of-factly, ignoring my stutter and the way it turns my face an even darker red.

"Who's talking about being sexually attracted? We just though she was pretty," says Alice slyly.

Esme enters then, her toffee-coloured hair bobbing and bringing with it the scent of one of her fancy perfumes. She's rather soft looking in a way that rings of old Hollywood glamour and motherly hugs. There's a bag in one of her hands and in the other is a plastic water bottle which she tosses at Alice.

"I thought you might be thirsty," she says, her voice low and kind as she gives the girl a good-natured wink. She waves Alice off the bed and sits gracefully in her place, placing a quick kiss on my hairline in greeting. "Hello, darling."

"Hello."

I want to lean in and hug her, but her clothes look immaculate, the sharp pressed lines of her dress quite intimidating. Instead, I reply with a peck on her cheek as she wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"Who are you talking about?" she asks, smiling warmly and pushing back non-existent hair from my forehead.

"No one," I say as Alice chirps out Isabella's name.

"Isabella Swan? The Chief's daughter?" enquires Esme, twisting her body to look at Alice, her face somehow managing to look even happier.

Alice nods and I narrow my eyes threateningly at her. "We were just discussing whether or not she was pretty," she says, smirking when Esme turns back to me.

"Oh, she's beautiful!" exclaims Esme with a laugh. "And she'd be very lucky to have you."

I think I squeak in horror which makes Esme laugh louder and lean down to kiss the top of my head again.

"I-it's not like that!" I vow, wide-eyed and panicking.

"Of course not, sweetheart. I made you a sandwich by the way. Is ham and cheese alright?" she asks, ruffling inside of the bag at her feet.

"Really, it's not like that," I repeat, hoping the conviction in my voice will outweigh the ruddy stain on my face.

"I believe you. Now, do you want your sandwich now or later?"

I purse my lips, considering pressing the matter before sighing deeply. "Now please."

The sandwich isn't exactly tasty. The bread is soggy with thick butter, the cheese is quite strong and the ham tastes like plastic. I stuff my mouth with it though, resembling a greedy hamster, grateful she'd even bother herself with making it. I get crumbs in the bed and can't get them out again. They irritate my skin and in the end Esme takes my hands into hers to stop me scratching myself bloody.

The hum of Esme and Alice's conversation is comforting, it lets me relax and enjoy being out of the limelight. It's the sound of family: jokes and kind words amongst idle chatter and chuckling. After years of nothing but anger and fear I find myself often disorientated, disbelief fogging the joy of finding everything I ever wanted. People to love who love me back.

A part of me, the part that considers fate and magic, sometimes wonders if Esme was supposed to be my mother. I don't really believe in reincarnation or god or anything other than what I can see, mainly due to the fact the physical realm has been keeping me considerably preoccupied, but now, without ever-present threats and dangers, I find myself speculating over silly things that can never be proven one way or another. Maybe once, in a life before, we were one great big family, bonded by blood or perhaps Carlisle and Esme are just the perfect adoptive parents, able to create relationships with even the most troubled of children.

I don't think I fall asleep, merely zone out briefly, yet when I become aware of my surroundings again I find that Esme and Alice are gone. It startles me and I try to sit up to look for them, as if they might have decided to lie on the floor for no apparent reason, but my attention is diverted when someone by the door begins to flap their hands.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," says Isabella, "don't get up on my account."

"I'm…uh...I…"

My brain reels and my muscles contract as if they're ready to send me running at a moment's notice. Her appearance, unexpected but welcome, makes me nervous and all my composure breaks down into dust. Her voice, soft and sweet, makes me swallow loudly and I feel a sheen of moisture break out across my skin. A pair of crutches jitter nervously under her armpits, one leg held carefully off the floor, encased by a thick cast that already has a signature on it. I want to ask her about it, but my voice catches in my throat. She's in what looks to be her father's oversized work jumper and a pang of guilt swells up in my stomach when my eyes try to find the outline of her body beneath it.

"I thought I'd come to visit you, but if you're tired…" she trails off, hovering nervously in the doorframe.

"No!" I exclaim, voice cracking from stress and giddiness. "No, it's alright."

She smiles carefully and approaches, standing as if on trial, straight and poised. She looks me over in one long swooping flick of the eyes that chills me to the core. Her eyes are very pretty I note, but unreadable in regards to whether she likes what she sees or not. My ego, the tatters that remain of it anyway, discovers an opportunity to repair itself and I find myself trying to puff up my chest in an attempt to look less like a sickly child.

"So…" she says, awkwardly, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

"You can sit down if you want," I mumble, equally as uncomfortable as she.

She sits on the very edge of the chair by my side, angling herself towards me, but not really looking at me. I'm glad nobody is here to witness this. Alice would enjoy it far too much, as would Esme, but for kinder reasons.

"Emmett told me you were sick," she says, glancing up and smiling almost apologetically. "I hope you don't mind me coming to visit. I probably should have gone to the gift shop and gotten you something, shouldn't I? I wanted to, but Charlie got distracted in the waiting room and if I hadn't come now I would have ended up sitting there for another hour. His friend shot himself in the foot."

"Oh," I say, unsure which part of that to reply to. "You don't need to get me anything."

She smiles and I find her so very pretty I think I'm staring. I'm sure she notices and though I try to look less interested I know my flush betrays me. I look down at my hands and pick at my nails, thinking it will distract me, but my focus becomes her outline in my peripheral vision.

"Do you get many visitors?" asks Isabella, her interest merely out of polite formality.

"Not really. My family visit me the most," I admit. I doubt my lack of friends is a surprise to her.

"Your real family or the Cullens?"

"The Cullens _are_ my real family," I say and at first I think I'll regret being so blunt with her, but her apologetic smile is accompanied by such a pleasant blush I find myself forgetting to be appalled by myself.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry," she says, reaching out with an imploring hand. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"I-it's okay," I choke out, eyes darting from her face to the hand on my arm.

Warmth spreads out from where our skin touches making me want to crawl out of my skin and sink deeper into the bed all at the same time. I squirm, apparently noticeably for she squeezes my arm, her eyes filling with concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "Have I upset you?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I promise, keeping immobile for fear she'll withdraw her hand. "I just...uh…no, I'm fine."

She smiles again, slightly bewildered and I try very hard to ignore where we are joined. I'm so very glad Alice isn't here, but rather annoyed I have so little control over myself. She's just being friendly, for goodness sake.

"I don't scare you do I?" she asks, her tone light, but betraying real concern.

"No, of course not. I'm sorry, I'm not very good at social things," I admit. "I don't talk to a lot of people so I don't really know how to not make myself look like an idiot."

"You haven't made yourself look like an idiot," she says and her hand tightens again, trying to comfort me.

"That'd be a first," I mutter.

"Honestly, you haven't. I'm a bit shy myself."

I give her a look that probably is a bit too disbelieving because she laughs, a real laugh, a laugh that dissolves a considerable amount of tension between us.

"Really," she says. "I thought I was going to be sick the first day of school."

"Were you?" I ask and tentatively, and I can't believe I do it, I reach over and slip my other hand on top of hers. I pretend it's my turn to comfort her, but really, even if I want to admit it or not, I'm testing boundaries that I'm unsure if I should be testing. My fingers barely brush over her skin before they retreat and curl somewhere on my lap. If it bothers her, her expression doesn't reveal so and my ego thrills at this.

"No, I wasn't, but if it wasn't for Angela I'd probably still be friendless and wandering around the halls lost," she says, her voice unwavering.

"You would have made friends. You'll still make more. Girls like you become popular without even trying."

"Girls like me?"

My face burns red, again, and I cringe. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? Is being a girl like me a bad thing?" she asks, her tone suggesting what I _think _is teasing.

"No! I don't mean it like that. I'm sorry, I'm being stupid. Of course you'll find friends," I babble.

"No go on," she says, leaning in until I can smell strawberry shampoo, "tell me about girls like me."

I hope she's joking and I haven't offended her because my brain turns to mush and I can't think properly anymore. I gulp, my Adam's apple bobbing as my eyes travel instinctively to her lips. My throat dries immediately and I know that she'll see my face turn progressively pinker and pinker the longer she hovers so close.

"I…umm…you're just…"

"I'm?" she prompts, smiling a slow smile that makes me feel light headed.

"You're very nice…" I whisper and I wonder if she's doing this deliberately.

"And?" she asks, cocking her head and inching the tiniest bit closer.

"And you're smart."

"Am I?"

"Yes," I manage to croak out as her eyes hold mine.

She's teasing with me, isn't she? There's something light dancing on the surface of her eyes, superficial but uncomplicated. She's playing girlish game that is equally as sweet as it is intoxicating. As I search her eyes, for what I don't know, I find a darker glow beginning to take hold, something heady and calculating, perhaps testing her own boundaries. It makes me feel more confident and apparently it makes her quite bold too.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asks.

"Yes," I whisper.

Her smile is triumphant and she leans in closer, my heart quickening in disbelief and excitement as she does so.

"Very pretty?"

"Yes."

"How pretty?"

"You're the prettiest girl I've ever met."

"Do you mean that?" she asks, her voice a soft sigh.

"I mean everything I say."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I think she likes my answer because her eyes flutter close and she leans forward to close the gap between us.

A/N

Update! Is it late? Technically no because we don't have an official update schedule...oh I do love my technicalities. I also like quick development. Who knows maybe Bells and Eddie-kins will get kinky right on the hospital bed and have a baby all in the same chapter. Don't count on it though. Great big thanks to Huntingforwitches, sujari6 and Evertwilight24 for commenting and for everyone else who Read, Followed or Favorited.

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	6. Chapter Six: Pillow Talk

Disclaimer: I own little other than the souls of my vanquished enemies...as well as a bad sense of humour and terrible spelling and grammar! Yay!

Pillow Talk

We don't kiss.

I lean in so close I can feel the heat coming off his mouth, lips parted the tiniest amount and wet from the nervous tongue that softens chapped skin. His eyes are heavily lidded as if woozy and I see that the confusion in them is making him reluctant to tilt his head. There's something very nice about his face once you get past the grey complexion and how being underweight has made his features a little alien-like. The hair isn't all that bad either, not really, not if you don't focus on it.

I wouldn't necessarily call it chemistry, but I feel a pull of satisfaction seeing his blush and my ego is stroked rather nicely when he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh when I brush my nose against his. Toying with him is fun, as is slowly dragging compliments out of him. I feel like I owe him a kiss for it and my body thrills as I press toward to touch my lips very gently against his.

It doesn't happen though. He jerks his head back as if he's been electrocuted and all the wondrous colour in his cheeks drains away. His eyes glaze dull to an emotionless blank that makes my stomach drop to my feet and disappointment slow my thudding heart.

"Sorry."

His voice is cold and it throws me. My head feels muddled and I try to sort out the swirl of heated thoughts that have me feeling jittery, confused by the quick change of atmosphere and how he pushes himself as far away from me as the bed allows.

"Did I…"I trail off, unsure what to say.

"No, it's not you."

I didn't push him, did I? I thought all boys liked to be flirted with and tormented with the anticipation of a kiss. At least nobody has complained to me about it yet. Mom had always been rather lax on the dating front with me. She'd explained the basics: it's normal; it's fun; it's about the exploration of yourself and you'd better use a condom or you'd be raising a baby by yourself for the next twenty years. This though, this is a first.

I don't smell do I? I try to take a quick sniff of myself, but I can't detect anything that'd be off putting. Sure, my hair is a little greasy, but I did clean myself up in the bathroom after I was discharged. Maybe I misread all his signals. No, he said I was pretty and, okay, boys say whatever they need to say to get into your panties, but that would just prove that he wanted to get into them in the first place.

I slump down into the chair, frustrated with a wounded pride. My actual wound, my broken leg, hurts too and it makes me a little short tempered.

"Then what is it?" I snap.

He looks at me warily and I try to smooth the edge irritation has cut into my voice. He's looking more and more like a frightened deer and I'd rather not have to dance around in some coy ritual.

"I'm sorry," he says again and my heart twinges in guilt.

"Look, don't be sorry, just explain. I though you wanted to kiss me. You looked like you wanted to," I say, hoping I don't sound too blunt.

It seems I still manage to shock him, a tinge of colour appearing at the tips of his ears as he presses his lips together in an uncomfortable line. If there's one thing my mother taught me other than teenage sexuality it's to tackle a problem involving said teenage sexuality straight on. _It's best to learn from your faux-pas so you don't repeat them,_ she'd say. She wasn't wise on a lot of things and she didn't always practice what she preached, but her advice on relationships was usually sound.

"I did," he mumbles and the revelation brings with it a wash of red to his face that I find rather comforting and that settles the self-conscious doubt that had briefly been raised in my mind.

"You know you're allowed to kiss me, right?" I ask.

"Yes," he whispers it as a confession of sin.

"Then what's the matter? Do you know how to kiss?"

His stops staring at his wringing hands to look up at me with such indignation that I laugh.

"Of course I know how," he says and he looks as if he wants to dissolve into thin air. "I mean, I understand the basics and my siblings they—" he cuts himself off abruptly.

"Your siblings kiss each other?" I try not to sound repulsed.

"They're not really related," he mumbles. "It's probably not illegal."

"Probably?" He gives me a look that shuts me up quickish and I decide not to press this particular issue. "But _you've_ never been kissed."

"Is that a problem?" he asks, gaze dropping from mine again, embarrassed.

"Do you consider it a problem?"

"No."

"Then it's not a problem for me."

Neither of us seems to know what to say and we sit stiffly, facing away from each other as if by ignoring the other the previous five minutes will cease to exist. I chew at my lip and tuck imagined stray strands of hair behind my ear so as to look casual. He's picking at his fingernails and I worry that he's going to rip the hangnails until they bleed, but I feel far too uneasy to reach out and tug his hand away.

"I'm just not very good in social situations," he says.

"I know, you told me before."

"I'm sorry I freaked out a bit."

"You looked like I'd grown fangs," I say dryly.

This makes him chuckle and peek up at me. Laughing is good. Laughing makes it seem like nothing went terribly wrong. I decide to drop the subject altogether, he doesn't look like he can handle a grilling and I'm sure there are some doors from his past we'd both like to keep firmly closed. I'd rather not know all his hang-ups.

"Sorry," he repeats for perhaps the hundredth time.

"Don't be, forget it ever happened. Next time I see you I'll hit on you more gradually, how's that?"

I laugh again as he blinks at me in surprise, unsure what answer is acceptable. He smiles when he realises I'm joking with him, face relaxing to a less pained expression and the tension in his upper body easing. His gaze dips down to my bulky cast and his brows furrow in a questioning look.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I got run over by a van."

His eyes pop wide before tracing across my body in a worried once-over. I think he's half expecting to find a gaping wound in my side and to be honest I can't quite believe I got away so lightly either.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. It's actually thanks to your brother that I didn't get squished," I say. "He pulled me out of the way."

"Emmett?" he asks.

"No, Jasper."

"Jasper's got good reflexes," says Edward, distracted, the cogs visibly turning in his head.

"So I've heard," I mumble, the image of the dented van floating to the front of my mind. "I'm sure he's very talented."

"He is. All my siblings are." I'm sure I hear bitterness behind the words, but I can't be sure and before I can dig his vision focuses as he comes back to reality. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me too," I say. "Not even in Forks for a month and I've got a broken leg."

"You're unlucky," it's a statement not a question.

"I'm a walking accident," I correct, though the irony is lost on him.

As I stand I brush off Charlie's sweater even though I know there's no lint on it, I think it makes my gesture to leave seem more finalised, almost professional. He reacts by sitting a little straighter in bed. I don't like the way it makes his collarbones stick out further underneath his clothes; he resembles a plucked bird.

"I'll visit you again," I say with conviction, maybe trying to convince myself of this rather than him.

"You won't get a chance to," he says and for an awful moment I think he's telling me he's going to die. "I'm getting discharged next week."

I take in his fragility and wonder what kind of idiots are running this hospital, but then I remember Dr Cullen's face and forget to be quite so angry. I'm sure he knows what he's doing.

"So I'll see you at school then," I say.

"In Gym," he says with a little smile.

"In Gym," I confirm and lean down to peck him on the cheek. "To make up for the failed attempt."

I dart out of the room as quick as feasibly possible on crutches before I have a chance to watch his face morph from mild surprise to anything more sinister. I'm practically congratulating myself as I hobble out of the room and come face to face with Ro.

"Isabella."

_She knows. _

"Rosalie," I say, willing my face to stay neutral.

Her face pinches together in a terrifying look that has me wanting to cup my neck, to protect it from being slit. She knows what happened. She can smell my guilt. I feel like I've deflowered her little brother from even the attempt of a kiss.

"Bella!"

It's Emmett. I don't know how I missed him, he blots out half the hallway with his massive size and casts a foreboding shadow over myself and his sister-wife that fits my darkening prospects rather nicely. He seems oblivious to my panic and Ro's sadistically quirked eyebrow which I don't find surprising, especially when he proudly holds up the card he made in art class. I'm happy to see him, not just because he's rather entertaining, but because a witness means I'm less likely to die today.

"Esme, _this _is Bella. Bella this is my mom," says Emmett and it's only then I see the woman holding his hand.

I seriously consider getting plastic surgery when I look at her face. The Cullens are all beautiful, yes, but in a way that is easily as scary as it breath-taking. Esme though, Esme I cannot fault. I try to, I really do, but there's such a radiant kindness evident in every soft curve that I simply can't. I don't understand how she manages it so I resign myself to a lifetime of mediocre looks.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," says Esme and her voice is butter and honey.

"Hi," I manage to choke out.

"Were you visiting Edward?" she asks. "I'm sure he'll be glad to have had a visitor, we must bore him to death, poor thing. I'd go mad being cooped up in bed all day with nothing to do."

"I don't think Ed should be having visitors, Esme," says Ro through gritted teeth. "It'll wear him out."

"Don't be a drag, Rosie," Emmett interjects, nudging her hip with his which seems to be a mistake because she turns her glare on him, not that he seems to notice. "Edward should have lots of friends or he'll get sad. He's no fun when he's sad."

"And when he's tried he gets sick," Ro snaps.

"I'm sure it'll do him more good than harm seeing a friendly face," says Esme, smiling at me whilst trying to squeeze Ro's shoulder in both reassurance and as a subtle warning at her waning manners.

The blonde shrugs away from the other woman's hand. The rejection is evident on her adoptive mother's face, hand still raised in a light extension of comfort as if a butterfly had just slipped out of her grip. Ro grabs Emmett's hand, which makes him smile sunnily, and drags him past me into Edward's room. Her curled lip reminds me of a growling lion and I stumble out of her way, nearly toppling over on my crutches as she glides past. A soft sigh comes from Esme's lips, sad and resigned as the door clicks behind them, Emmett waving goodbye even as Ro hisses her annoyance.

"I'm sorry, dear," says Esme, startling me when she reaches out to stroke my cheek. "Rosalie is a tad territorial. She means well, but sometimes she's a little too…"

"Ferocious?"

"Passionate. All of my children are passionate in one way or another. It makes for interesting personalities."

I can't deny her that. The Cullens are a bunch of nutjobs. A part of me winces a little at that, though. Edward probably isn't quite as _passionate_ as his siblings and including him in the statement probably isn't fair.

"I didn't mean to cause a problem by visiting. I know this is a stressful time and I didn't mean to invade your privacy," I say, but Esme literally waves it off.

"When isn't it a stressful time for a family such as mine?" she chuckles. "I'm truly grateful you visited, Isabella. Your company is probably the best thing for Edward right now, he needs friends."

"I haven't known him too long, but he seems like a lovely person," I offer up my praise of her parenting skills, hoping to win her over with a bit of good ol' fashion flattery without committing myself too much.

"He is the best and brightest of us all," she says and I wonder if she's making a comment about his hair rather than his intellect.

"I'm sure," I say, laughing politely through the awkwardness that an over-protective mother brings when she brags about her son.

My laugh falls short though and Esme notices. "I'm terribly sorry, Isabella. Here I am singing his praises whilst you only arrived back in Forks a short while ago. Chief Swan did much the same about you when he first discovered you were coming home so I feel like I know you already, but I'm sure the feeling isn't quite mutual yet. It must be strange coming to a place where it seems everyone knows your business before you do."

"It's a bit off putting when strangers know your name," I admit.

"We never had that problem when we moved here a few years back. We are and continue to be outsiders. Forks is quite a tight knit community that seems not to deal well with the arrival of those who were not born and bred here."

"It's a blessing in disguise," I say. "At least you can keep to yourselves."

Esme's smile falters and turns thoughtful. "We do like to do that, but sometimes I wonder if we've been too isolated over the years. We moved around a lot you see, and though it made us close I look at my children and see that they're lonely in ways the family unit cannot provide for. I would like very much to settle here in Forks; it's rather beautiful and reminds me of my childhood."

"Then don't move," I say cheerfully, "stay in Forks, god knows this place needs a bit diversity."

"I'd love to," her tone is light, "but Carlisle would miss the sun."

"I haven't seen it much here."

"No, I don't think it's been sunny in months."

"Who knows, maybe that's a blessing in disguise too, somehow."

"Maybe," says Esme, "but I have no idea what that blessing would be."

"Less chance of skin cancer," I chuckle and then slap my hand over my mouth.

The horror of my words makes me want to crawl under a rock, but Esme's face remains untroubled as if Edward doesn't lay in a hospital bed in the very next room. I'm not known for being insensitive, but carelessness in all forms is a personal difficultly of mine and I hate making myself look like a fool.

"Don't worry about it, dear," she says when I try to apologise, "there's no need to be sorry."

"I didn't mean…" I try to say around my hand, but Esme cups my cheek tenderly before I can dig myself a deeper hole.

"I know. No offence has been taken, a joke is a joke, Isabella, and I have a remarkable sense of humour."

I grimace as she shakes her head at my foolishness and then plants an unexpected kiss upon the top of my head. I'm not how to take such affection and so stand there slightly dazed as she pulls away. She's looking at me in a way that unnerves me, speculative yet kind in the way a person might watch over a sickly stray dog. I want to pull away, had it been anybody else I would have, but her eyes hold me fixed in place. I feel like she's seeing me, truly seeing me like nobody else ever has before; stripping away barriers and conditioning to examine to soul in its entirety. I'm scared by it, scared of her and scared of what she might see in my reaction.

"You could be a good friend to him," she says finally, "a great friend. If you were to choose it that is."

She kisses my head again before turning towards the door and leaving me slightly bewildered from the rawness of her unfiltered gaze. I blink rapidly and sway back as if freed from invisible ropes that had been pulled taut, trying to think of some coherent reply within the confines of politeness.

"I hope you do choose us, Isabella. I hope every day for my family's happiness and I would love for that, one day, to include you."

A/N

I think this is shorter than usual, I'm not sure... A massive thank you to everyone who commented, Favorited and followed, it's awesome to see more and more people jumping on the Incessant train, next stop Chapter Seven. Also a special thank you to Tarbecca who recommenced this story on ADifferentForest. I'd never heard of the site before, but I'm glad I checked it out.

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


	7. Chapter Seven: Dreams

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. I don't blame it on the sunshine. Or even the moonlight. I sure don't blame it on the good times. I blame it on the Boogie.

Dreams

"Hey."

"Hey."

Edward's smile is still hesitant when I sidle up to him on the bleachers, but at least after several weeks of this ritual his face is able to retain its usual ghostly pallor. He closes the book on his lap, inserting a bookmark to keep his place whilst trying to conceal the front cover by flipping it quickly over.

"What you reading?" I ask.

"Oh…um…nothing interesting."

Whether it was through guilt, boredom or genuine interest I had found myself talking to Edward during Gym class with relative ease over the past month. The conversations were bland at best, yet I didn't dislike sitting next to him whilst he stuttered and mumbled his way through the hour. In fact, I enjoyed the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't looking. It was nice to be the object of desire. I did not necessarily find him attractive or even particularly charming, but there was something in the nerdy naivety and his fluster that I enjoyed. He lacked confidence and it was a pleasant oddity to be the one in charge for a change.

"No, go on," I object, leaning closer to him in the way that makes him bashful, "what is it?"

I feel a little guilty when he flips over the book, my tongue becoming sour in my mouth.

"My mother's friend recommended it," he says, pushing his lips together in an apologetic line. "Her daughter had leukaemia, too."

The book is light pink with the words _Sunset Futures with Cancer _in purple block capitals. There's a picture of two bald children with their faces pressed together smiling up at the reader, all toothy grins and crinkled eyes.

"What's it about?" I ask slowly, hating how my hesitancy makes the words seem that much more uneasy.

"Delusional parents," he snorts.

Though I hear a twinge of bitterness I'm taken aback at how calmly both he and his family regard this particular issue. There's no skirting around it, no treading on eggshells.

"Oh?" I prompt, hoping non-expressive fillers will be the least offensive approach.

His smile is a little more genuine, the familiarness of this topic making him confident enough to hold my gaze.

"Some people think that if you believe the cancer will go away and you make plans as if it were, then they'll just magically get better. I do believe in the power of positive thinking, but you can't wish away a terminal illness. If you could, I'd be out there now," he says, gesturing to where our class plays basketball, "with everyone else."

"But what about chemo?" I ask. "That can cure cancer."

"You're right, it can, but some people are just unlucky."

"Well, if it's luck then why shouldn't you plan for your future?" I ask. "Doesn't that beat sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself?"

He laughs. A loud, slightly hysterical laugh that draws looks from the other students. I flush, feeling like an idiot. Trust my mouth to say something untactful.

"You're right, of course," he chuckles, quieter now as he runs his hands over the top of his head. "Rose says much the same thing to me. She's one of the delusional ones who thinks in a few years' time I'll be a doctor."

"You're smart enough."

His cheeks tinge with colour. "You think?"

"Sure. You always seem to be reading something."

"That doesn't necessarily mean I'm smart."

"Makes you smarter than me."

He looks at me as if he's considering something very important. There's an internal struggle going on and one side evidently wins as his face relaxes back into a less pained expression. He turns his body towards me more squarely, setting his shoulders resolutely.

"It's not true, you know, what they say about my family," he says, voice firmer than I'd have thought him capable.

"You're not adopted?"

"No," he laughs, posture easing a bit in his mirth, "no, that's true."

"Then I'm not quite sure what you're referring to."

"About the house and the land and everything. Why everyone hates us."

I don't have the heart to tell him the reason everyone dislikes his family is more to do with their general creepiness than whatever he's gibbering about.

"I'm sorry, I'm still not sure what you're talking about," I say, slowly, ruefully.

"We didn't kill the old Quileute man for his land."

I blink, once, and then it's my time to laugh. I think he looks offended, the expected redness flaring to life in his face.

"Excuse me?"

"We didn't kill him. Rose may be a little violent at times and Emmett may look scary, but he's as harmless as a butterfly. We would have moved to some other part of town if we couldn't have bought the land, despite what people say. Carlisle's a doctor for Pete's sake! He _helps _people," he asserts even as the skin of his forehead blurs into the colour of his hair.

"Edward," his name brings a rush of unexpected satisfaction, "I have never heard anyone say that about your family. Never. I don't know who told you that, but—"

"The reservation kids," he interjects, trying to regain some dignity. "It's was the reservation kids. I can't go down onto their beaches anymore. They throw ice cubes at me if I do."

"Ice cubes?" I sound a little incredulous.

"Yeah. I think it's some sort of an inside joke. I never stopped to ask."

"Where do they get the ice cubes from?"

"I have no idea."

I reach out and place a hand on his arm as I did in the hospital. This time, however, I know the boundaries even if the touch of his clammy skin warms me through, my cheeks heating and a jolt dipping down low in my stomach. I swallow hard.

"I promise I've never heard anyone say that about your family before."

"That's good."

He lets out a shaky sigh, but I don't think it's out of relief. His reaction is more than flattering, as is the way his eyes dart to my throat before he catches them in their tracks and sends them back up to my face. Had he been another boy and had we been at a party or in my bedroom not up on the bleachers for everyone to see, I would have kissed him. It would have been highly anticipated. It would have been fun. Unfortunately, Edward is Edward and so I lean back. I think he looks just as disappointed as thankful.

We smile at each other through the layer of tension between us. I push back the hairs fluttering in front of my face, caught on my laboured breathing and try to think of anything, _anything, _which might distract me.

"I still don't think your sister likes me much," I say.

"Really?" his tone sounds grateful for the diversion of conversation. "Which one?"

"Do you need to ask?" I say with a still slightly breathless snigger.

"No, I suppose not."

"I was told Ro was protective, but I didn't expect such ferociousness," I admit.

"She loves me," he says, and I'm not sure why the statement shocks me so. "She'd tear the world apart if it'd save me."

"What about your other siblings? Are they as devoted?"

He gives me a confused look. "Of course. They're family. Wouldn't your father protect you with his life, if it came to it?"

"Well, yes, but that's a dad's job. He's supposed to do it. Plus he's a cop. He's used to putting his life on the line; I don't think it means much to him anymore."

The confusion takes on an underlying of disbelief, it curdles shame in me, though I can't find the source of his reaction.

"He loves you, Isabella."

"I know."

"That's why he'd protect you, not because it's his duty. When you love someone you'd do anything to keep them safe, sacrifice anything, even if it made you miserable or risked everything you held dear," he says, so passionately his voice burns with the truth of it.

"I'm pretty sure Charlie isn't as honourable as all that," I ridicule.

"Chief Swan is the most honourable man I know and quite possibly the bravest."

"And what gives you that impression?" I snap. "The man couldn't be bothered to visit his own daughter."

Edward clamps his jaws shut and I shrivel back, cringing at my outburst. After a short moment, when my bite has vanished from the atmosphere, he looks me right in the eye as if will alone could stick his words into my head.

"My father is a great man. Kind, fair, intelligent, good_. _He _loves_ your father."

I scoff.

"No, really," insists Edward, "my mother, too. If my parents hold him in such high esteem, then there's a reason for it. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I trust their opinion. Jasper admires him too, even if he doesn't show it and so does Rose."

"You haven't lived with him," I say, "so you can't really comment, can you?"

"Well, technically, neither have you."

"Exactly! That's my point. So, unless your family is keeping his so-called merits a secret, I don't think Charlie is the saint you're trying to make him out to be."

Edward shrugs, backing off. "Maybe you're right."

"I am," I confirm, but something like guilt niggles at me.

"People aren't always as simple as they seem. Sometimes there's a depth that you can't see up front," he says, and it sounds like he's talking from experience.

"Charlie is pretty simple," I mock.

"I don't know. Look at Emmett."

"What about Emmett?"

"Well, what do you think of him?"

I hesitate, wondering how to walk along the thin tightrope of politically correctness. We're not allowed to use the term _special_ anymore, are we?

"He's friendly," I start, "and creative. A little…distractible at times."

"He's a child," says Edward, matter of fact. "He acts like a small child."

Now I have an appropriate terminology I feel a little more at ease. "Yes," I say. "He does act a bit childish at times."

"And Jasper?"

"I don't know him very well…" I trail off, hoping to get off the hook.

"Just give me your basic assumptions," he presses.

"Well, I suppose he's a bit uptight, doesn't say much. Actually, I don't think I've heard him talk once."

"And we already know what you think of Rose, so what about Alice?"

"The opposite. Very talkative, loud, maybe a bit too up-close and personal."

"What about me?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm not describing you."

"Why not?"

"It's rude."

"You just did it to my brothers and sisters."

"That's different," I insist.

"Just do it. I won't be offended, I promise."

Eyeing him distrustfully, yet playfully I consider the least offensive route. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"Isabella," his tone is trying.

"Bella."

"Bella, I'm know what you're going to say anyway."

"You don't and I can't."

"Fine then. I'll say it for you: shy, cancerous."

I wince. "I wasn't going to say that."

"You were thinking it," his voice is smooth, untroubled. "And that's okay. Everyone makes assumptions. How could they know that Emmett has an IQ of 164 and collects rare paintings? Jasper is a mute who hasn't spoken a word in all the time my parents have known him and is so sensitive that if he thinks he's done something wrong he'll sit in a corner of his bedroom for hours, literally, _hours. _And Alice? Alice sees things."

"What kind of things?" I ask in a whisper.

"Things that aren't there. Things that—"

"She's schizophrenic?" I interject, startled.

"Yes. No. We don't use labels."

"If she's schizophrenic she should be on medication," I warn, the tiny girl prancing to the forefront of my memories, slightly wild and apparently unhinged.

"It's not like that," he mumbles, clearly regretting his loose tongue. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make either."

"I know it wasn't, but if your father has a bunch of mentally unstable people in his home, then a doctor should know about it."

"My father _is _a doctor," he reminds me.

"Then he's a pretty awful one."

"Alice doesn't need to be medicated," he says, off-hand. "The things she sees and feels aren't bad, they're a part of her."

"Oh, really? I doubt a psychiatrist would agree."

"You have to realise," Edward says, leaning in closer, imploringly, "my siblings are gifted."

I give him a scathing look. "Is that what they tell you?"

"You don't understand, but how could you?" he says sadly, leaning away again. "You're not with them every day."

"No, _you _don't understand," I snap, angry now. "You're feeding into hallucinations and excuses. Sick people never think that they're sick."

"Alice isn't sick."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then why does she see things?"

"Because she's _special_!" Edward exclaims, exasperated.

"So was my mother. She said she was special. Do you know what else she said? She told me she was the chosen one and there was a demon coming to steal me away from her. Being special means jackshit when you have to tell people for them to see it."

The sarcasm drips from my voice and suddenly things aren't as friendly and flirty as they had been before. I drop my head, breaking the sharp strain keeping us latched together, coiling tighter and tighter in our argument. I unclose my fists, unconsciously balled up in the heat of the moment. Mom was prone to boughs of grandiose thinking, but we never spoke of it, never acknowledged the days when she couldn't bring herself to leave the house or eat possibly poisoned food.

"Sorry," his voice is barely audible.

I exhale and my anger evaporates with it. "No. You shouldn't apologise. I'm being a bitch."

"You're not and under any other circumstances I'd agree with you about this but…"

"But your siblings are special and you can't tell me why," I finish for him.

"Yeah."

"Just like why you can't tell me why my father is an unsung hero."

"Something like that."

"It seems to me like you're keeping a lot of secrets and that some of those secrets involve my business."

His expression is pained, scrunched at the nose. It results in him look like an ugly vole, but I feel guilty thinking that so I look at his collar instead. I never noticed before, but this clothes are unexpectedly nice. Designer nice. All of the Cullens wear expensive clothes, you can see the money in the cut and weight of the fabric, but I had expected him to be wearing something a little _less_. Perhaps it's because I didn't view him like I did the other Cullens or maybe it was just because he didn't look like a model and so subconsciously I didn't think him fit for them. His slacks are slate grey, dark enough to not amplify his paleness and the shirt is pinstriped, bringing a small thread of red. He's dressed very well and I speculate which sister dictates what he wears.

"You should meet them," he finally decides.

"Excuse me?"

"You should meet them, my family, properly. Not in the hospital, but in our home so you can see for yourself."

"Are you asking me to come and meet your parents?"

A glow graces his skin. "Not like that. I want you to make your own mind up about us, about me. I want you to see if you can find any depth to who I am."

"I don't think Ro will be happy about that," I say.

"No, but she'll tolerate it."

"Because she loves you," I can't tell if I'm mocking or not.

"Yes. Because she loves me."

"And what if I can't find any depth? What if I decide you're all crazy? What happens if I think you're shallow?"

"Then maybe that says more about you than it does me."

When I get home that night there's a stranger in my house. Jacob Black sits on the sofa with Charlie, chatting over some sports game on the television. He stands when I enter the living room and I take a step back in surprise. He's exceptionally tall with the build of a wire hanger and coffee complexion that is complimented by long, dark, sweeping hair. He's the prettiest boy I have ever seen and yet something in his soft, radiant face reminds me of Edward.

"Hi, Bella," he exudes happiness through every pour.

"Hello," I meekly reply.

"She's Isabella now, Jacob," teases Charlie. "You better remember or she'll be hounding you about it."

"Oh, sorry. Hi, Isabella," his smile is killer and the effect it has on his face is stomach-flutter worthy, except I'm grumpy and brooding after my Gym class conversations.

I try to force out a smile and, though I know it does indeed look forced, Jacob's smile never falters. I have no idea how old he is, but there's the lingering of puppy-fat around his jawline, features still soft, undefined. I could probably look past it since there are so few eligible men around these parts, but the way Charlie looks at him makes me sick. It's like he's found a long lost son whilst his daughter was away.

"You must remember Jacob, Isabella. You two played together as kids when you were down here," says Charlie affectionately. "You were fat little things, both of you."

"I remember," says Jacob. "You and dad would fish whilst we'd make mud pies. I think Harry used to bring Leah sometimes, but she complained because of the mess. You didn't mind though, Isabella. We'd be caked in it by the time the sun set."

The scene he paints is cute, but not one I remember.

"Leah Clearwater?" I ask, hoping I've got the right Harry in mind.

"Yeah!" his enthusiasm is irritating. "So you remember then?"

"Not clearly," not at all, "but then we were young."

"I was younger," laughs Jacob. "Leah's the cousin of Emily, Charlie. The one I was telling you about before. Who had the…uhh…accident."

I stand in the doorway like an idiot, not knowing what to say or do whilst Jacob just sits there like he has every right in the world to be in my house. Maybe he does. Maybe he and Charlie have spent years doing this, blathering away like old women in a house that still smells of my mother. They're about to fall into a pattern of conversation, but I can't hold back any more and the frustration from the day bubbles over in a flurry of words so fast even I only just understand them. To be honest, I'm just as surprised at what spills from my mouth as everyone else.

"What do you know about the Cullens?" I ask, interrupting Charlie mid-sentence.

Their heads snap over to me, then each other, then back.

"Me?" ask Jacob, a little perplexed.

"Yes."

I think Charlie senses something in my tone because he lets out a growl-like warning, "Bella…"

"Well," I say, ignoring him, "what do you know about them?"

Jacob glances over at Charlie in a way that is clearly a questioning of my sanity before proceeding carefully. "I don't really think it's my place."

"Why not? You're Quileute aren't you?"

"Bella!" exclaims Charlie as if I've said something foul. "What's gotten into you? Did something happen at school? Was someone mean?"

"It's alright, Charlie," Jacob tries to pacify my father.

"It's not alright. What's wrong, Bella?"

"Nothing's wrong," I retort. "It was just a simple question."

Charlie tries to press the issue, but Jacob waves him off. "It's alright, Charlie. I can talk."

Charlie stares at me long and hard, probably using his cop abilities of detection even as I wait for Jacob to say something. I don't know what I'm expecting the boy to say, but I'm quite sure I don't expect him look at me with all the sincerity in the world and tell me that there is one thing and one thing he knows with absolute certainty.

"They're vampires, Isabella. Blood sucking vampires, each and every one."

A/N

The plot thickens. I forget how hard it is to make conversation sound natural especially when it centres on supernatural topics…sort of. More mysteries and questions raised in this chapter, but we hope you're enjoying the ride. Also, Jacob! Yay. Thanks to everyone who Commented, Read, Followed and Favorited, we hope you're having as much fun reading as we are writing. If you have any advice, questions or humorous observations (we know you guys are a funny lot) feel free to drop us a line ;)

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


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